Ghosts
by Violonaire
Summary: The offer from New York's Metropolitan Opera House was all that Raoul had dreamt of for him, Christine and their young son. They could finally leave Paris for good; could leave behind the ghosts. But they soon found out there's no escape from the Phantom they once thought gone forever. Now it's up to Detective Matt Rivers to be able to see through the couple's shadows.
1. Prologue

Plink... plink...plink...

There was that damn drip, at regular intervals, on the damp stone floor. I lie in the corner of the room where I had been for too long ... forgotten. I grinned. Isn't me who had, somehow, choose to end my days in that cell? This would be my grave, I knew it. Somewhere, upstairs, I could hear shrill cries. Oh! I knew how they wanted me dead! I smile. My time was up and I wouldn't give them the pleasure to kill me with their own hands. The morphine seeped in my body and everything began to feel numb.

I moved my fingers but they were sticky. Red and sticky. The ring she had given me was tarnished and I tried to remove it to put aside and clean it later. But it slipped between my filthy fingers and rolled into the shadows. I heard it clink and reverberate against metal and stone.

I got up and bowed, maybe a bit too far, to pick it up. Everything spun around me.. My finger brushed its metal but it was too far under the bed. I stretched my muscles painfully to reach it but was halted by the rustling of fabric.

She had come back.

She was there, in her once immaculate dress, with her hair disheveled, her face pale, looking at me in silence. I saw the bloodstains that had flowed from her wound on her forehead, crimson, on the shoulders of her incandescent white dress. She held me in her melancholy glance and took a step towards me, reaching out to my face.

Christine.

I stepped back, my throat tight, my hands held out, red with blood. Behind her, a handsome, fair haired-man took her arm, throwing me a last look, filled with bitterness and terror. De Chagny. Tears ran down my swollen cheeks and splashed on the floor

Plink... plink...plink…

That drip. That fucking drip. Or was it blood?

And before the lovers completely disappear into the darkness, I saw others come in strength and throw themselves on me.

* * *

 _ **A/N :** Ghosts is a **thriller** and not a romantic story. This novel may be a little more a work of original fiction than a fanfiction._

 _To repeat a delightful expression that I have read here and which I adore: I have borrowed here_ Gaston Leroux's _gentle characters: Christine Daaé, Raoul de Chagny, Phantom of the Opera, Faure, Comissaire Mifroid and The Persian (no, not the more human version of Kay, Nadir, but the Persian by Gaston Leroux) and others I may forget. And ... and I damaged them a bit, in the process. Not just a little, I think. It's a very dark version of all the characters you'll find here. I add characters of my own that become the main protagonists. And I repeat, it is not a romantic work. But a thriller._

 _After analyzing Leroux's work, with a view to building the basis of my story, I consciously changed a few details. Notably the theater where the original story takes place. I know that the fire of the theater of which I will speak coincides much with the end of the film of 2004. But Ghosts is not inspired by the work of Webber. While Leroux's work takes place at the Palais Garnier, Ghosts situates the drama between Christine, Raoul and "Érik" in the Théâtre Le Pelletier, the historic predecessor of the Palais Garnier, which burned to ground on 28 October 1873, while the majestic theater which Leroux tell us about was only a draft that had been abandoned in time of war, the time that Prussia withdraws from the game. The Palais Garnier opens its doors only two years later and it is already a little late For my story, for several reasons. I chose the Le Pelletier theater for two very simple reasons: I wanted Ghosts to be firmly anchored in reality, with truthful historical facts. Different narrative reasons explain my choice. I needed the premise of Ghosts to be in the early 1870s to coincide with the confusing dates given by Leroux in his book and to coincide, almost ten years later, with the opening of the Metropolitan Opera House , October 22, 1883. And I needed a major catastrophe - which did not occur at the Palais Garnier until at least 20 years after its opening (the fall of the candlestick really did not occur until 1896)._

 _Because the fate of a murderer is always more nebulous, during a disaster where people lose their lives ..._

 _Thanks to **ChaosEmperorNex** and to **Mominator124** for beta-reading this prologue!_

 _Also, I'm looking for a new title for this novel. While ''Ghosts'' describe pretty much what I have in mind, it's over-used, for a fandom like that. Any suggestions will be welcomed!_


	2. Act I : Émile Chapter I : The Violin

Disarm you with a smile  
And leave you like they left me here  
To wither in denial  
The bitterness of one who's left alone  
Ooh, the years burn  
Ooh, the years burn, burn, burn

I _used to be a little boy_  
 _So old in my shoes_  
 _And what I choose is my Voice_  
 _What's a boy supposed to do?_  
 _The killer in me is the killer in you_  
 _My love_  
 _I send this smile over to you_

 _The killer in me is the killer in you_  
 _Send this smile over to you._

 _Smashing Pumpkins - Disarm_

* * *

A gust made the window squeak and the dirty cloth that had been thrown carelessly over the old padded leather armchair slipped, revealing the ravages of the rodents on the mahogany wood. The dust and cold ashes of the hearth rose for a moment accentuated by the light of the streetlights outside. The air was heavy and smelled a little moldy, but he was used to it by now.

Squeezing the big violin a little harder against his chest, he glanced nervously at the corridor. From below could be heard the cries of a stifled dispute. He walked cautiously, barefoot on the carpet gnawed by insects and vermin, so that it could not be heard from below. The boy entered in the parlor and walked pensively towards the large portrait above the dusty fireplace of the Old drawing room. He readjusted his little black velvet mask, found in an old chest full of costumes, and slid it up over his head to see it better.

He knew this portrait by heart. He had spent hours exploring each trait. This illuminated decor contrasted so much with that of the room. These gleaming ships, ready for war and victory, this proud man with high waist and unshakable shoulders. This broad face tanned by the sun. This austere, impassive forehead, from which seemed an extraordinary intelligence and virtue. Its dark hair, like his own, greyish at the temples that resembled those of a greek God. This manly chin, with this dimple, shaved close. This half-smile, at once benevolent, seductive and authoritative which promised wonders. This aura of majesty, of triumphant patriarchy. This self-control. And those clear blue eyes, cold, powerful, piercing through the canvas.

It looked like the Comte de Chagny was about to come out of this canvas, announce the next masked ball and scold his younger brother Raoul. How he looked like his father!

The young boy shuddered, but kept his dark eyes on the portrait, looking for a landmark, something to cling to, to feel he belonged there. He stepped forward to touch the sumptuous wood of the frame and passed his hand over the dusty glass of the picture which returned the same cloudy reflection as usual. The darkness accentuated his pale complexion and dramatically hollowed his dark eyes. He would have liked to look like Philippe.

''Ah, There you are. Your nanny is looking everywhere for you. But I ... I knew I would find you here Émile.''

The voice made the boy blanch and the light from the lamp hurt his eyes. The voice bore a heavy tone that chilled him. Quickly, he drew back into the shadows and lay huddled against the wall. The painting half concealed his horrified gaze. His father staggered between the old furniture with a bitter smile, as if in the midst of a friendly game of hide and seek. The child clutched the instrument more closely against him, without a word. He thought of hiding in the fireplace, but the light of his father's oil lamp had already found him. When he reached the boy's height position, he placed the lamp on the old billiard table and crouched in front of his son, with an affable smile on his lips. His eyes were injected with blood and the stink of alcohol made the child shudder. The man sniffed loudly. His eyes gazed over the mask on the kid's head. The man recoiled unexpectedly but he composed himself, smiling even more sweetly.

''Good Lord! What are you doing with this silly mask over your head? You'll never guess what I bought for you tonight, you'll love it, said his father.

His father put his hand behind his topcoat, with a naughty and teasing expression, and showed a magnificent wooden toy soldier, black and red and gold, like those on the Portrait behind the Count. The amazed child stretched out his hand, but his father stopped him gently.

''You'll have plenty of soldiers like that, you know. Every day I will bring you one. As gorgeous as this one, son. One day you will command them. Like Uncle Philippe. Colonel Émile de Chagny. That would be fine with you, huh? Do you see yourself as Colonel, son? Les De Chagny, they lead men, do you understand? You'll have a whole fleet of your own one day, you know. There will be plenty of soldiers like that. Not toys. No. Real flesh and blood soldiers. You will have an army of men. And you know what? I'll also buy you wooden ships. you would like that, would you? Huh? Tell me you'd like it. Huh?''

The boy had eyes only for the wooden figure his father was holding. His dark eyes widened and a timid smile ruffled his pale face. Émile stroked one of the gold stripes with his fingertips. His father's smile widened. His white teeth appeared and his blue eyes shone with pride for a moment. He caressed the boy's cheek affectionately as he had not done for a long time. The young boy forgot for a moment the fetid breath of the man to approach and admire the toy, the gleaming wood, the black silk of the costume and his red gold embroidery. It seemed like the light of the streetlights outside made them shimmer and, for a second, in the boy's mind, the soldier came to life and began to sing a military air, in a grave voice, to the glory of the French Navy. He bit his lip, his eyes were sparkling.

''It's yours ... All yours. All this will be yours, his father said.''

Then the man's smile disappeared slowly and his tone became serious, his speech became faster and he looked at the child impatiently.

"But you must give me that fucking violin, now."

The magic moment disappeared. It was his violin. His mother had told him so. His mother called it the enchanted violin. That one that her own father played to make her sing, when she was a child, in the cold countries to the north. She had told him so. It was the violin she had kept, all those years, to give it to him. To call the Angel of Music. It was the violin he played when he wanted to see his mother smile. She smiled at him only at those moments. How could he survive without the violin? How could he manage to release all these notes, all this music from his head? Panic filled him and his head turned like a cacophonic music box. The child began to pant, to lose his breath. He did not want the anger of his father but without the violin ... what was to become of him?

"It's a Stradivarius.'' His father said. ''Do you know what a Stradivarius is? Oh come on ... your mother ... Well, I mean... Victoire has told you, right? Eh, somewhere inside, you're smart, despite of everything, I know that. You're eight, you're capable of understanding that. I have a buyer Émile, do you understand? A buyer. A very important gentleman who wants this very violin. And there will be a good chunk of money. I can buy you your little soldiers and your little ships ... and ... and other violins ... and we'll be rich ... we'll be ...''

The child instinctively drew back and wished to run far away. But his father already had a grab on the violin. They glanced at each other for a moment. The boy plunged his terrified gaze into that of his father's bloodshot eyes. The rage distorted his father's features and he no longer recognized him. He no longer recognized the rumbling voice, more and more low and hoarse. Of pain and misery, he clutched to the instrument with all his might. But the voice of his father crescendoed and hurt his eardrums.

"Give me that bloody Stradivarius, Emile." His father's brow wrinkled a moment before he screamed, "Are you deaf, or what? Fucking child! Give me that violin, for God's sake!"

Distraught, the child pulled on the instrument with all his strength while his father held the violin, trying to remove it from the child's hands.

A sinister crack filled the air. Émile stopped fighting and a muffled sob came from his throat. The broken violin hung loosely in the hand of his father, like a disembodied puppet. The man looked stupidly at the instrument, suddenly speechless.

The boy felt suddenly dizzy. He had the impression that it was his whole being that had been mutilated forever. Tears began to burn his eyes. A piece if him was gone forever leaving behind an unbearable pain.

He wanted to scream with all his strength. He wanted to snatch the eardrums of the drunkard who stood in front of him, make him deaf, crush him like he had crushed the instrument ... but nothing happened ... His father was there, moaning against his missing fortune and trying, like an idiot to reassemble the instrument.

''But.. What have you done? God...'' the man murmured, ''what have you done?''

It was too much. The boy screamed with all that his lungs could contain. His own scream frightened him. It seemed inhuman, bestial. He seemed to come from another world. He stopped dry, baffled to be able to produce such a sound.

And then the slap came without warning. Like thunder. The phalanges of his father hit him directly in the jaw and Émile felt his right canine detach from his gums and the warm blood spurting from his lip. Stunned, he staggered for a moment, looking incredulously at his blood-stained hand. He looked up at his father, who was glancing at him with the same stupor. Then an interminable moment of silence.

Then, without thinking about it, he fled.

Behind him, his father's hoarse voice bawled, he heard what remained of the violin crashing against the fireplace.

''All right, little shit. Go on! Go hide under your mother's skirts! Return to your fucking music and your foolish manias. May she not come and shout at me when they jail you up like a bloody lunatic. Go on, run away, stupid child, run away!

The top floor of the mansion had been abandoned for years. Because the mansion was too big for four people, it was said. His father had wanted to save on heating, and repairing the roof would have cost too much. Victoire had explain that to him. Émile had a vague memory of the draperies and the magnificent lectern of his mother's music room and the luxurious carpet of the Old drawing room, where he played at the feet of his father and his associates. Since then, they had piled up all the old things there.

He had spent the whole day curled up at the foot of the old cradle. He had been crying for a long time until his head hurt him so much that he thought it was going to burst. He had remained motionless in the dark to hear the sounds of the street in the distance. He had probably fallen asleep and the greenish light of the evening began to emerge, through the closed shutters of the little room. Someone had put a blanket over him but he did not have heard no one during his sleep. A one franc coin had been slipped under his head. The shadows stretched out, turning the room and its inhabitants of wood and fluff into a theater of strange silhouettes. If the music room had become a cemetery of chests of yellowed partitions and moldy clothes, if the Old drawing room had become a tide of dust from which the wrecks of mahogany of the luxury of old had sprung up, the nursery had remained for three years.

Emile watched for a moment the mobile made of small white wooden horses, finely carved, which overhung the cradle with a canopy concealed by cobwebs. The room was once decorated like an opera house.. Frozen in time, Teddy bears awaited the first notes. The waves of wood, now painted greyish and peeling, seemed to peacefully rock their little boat and the little angel that it should have contained. On the bedside table, near the rocking chair, they had delicately placed, in order, the letters whitewashed with lime which were to furnish the cradle. The boy frowned. The E was missing, at the end. Émile liked to think that Gustave watched over them from his little cradle and that his universe was filled with lullabies. Victoire asserted that even if he was born too early, Gustave was with the angels. Emile had always wondered what angels she was talking about. He envied the chance of his little brother.

Painfully, he stood up and touched his lip. It had swallowed. He passed his tongue over the hole his milk tooth had left. He was still a bit sensitive but not that much anymore. Hunger began to tear at him. He stepped softly towards the exit and saw a dim light at the end of the corridor in the old drawing room. The boy's forehead wrinkled. Yet everything seemed calm. Had his father forgotten the oil lamp? He sneaked into the shadows and glanced quickly into the room. A subtle smell of soup welcomed him. One could distinguish the edges of the broken violin, in the shadows, on the fireplace. The oil lamp illuminated a small bowl which was cooling down, and a bun of buttered bread, which had been placed on the end of the billiard table. Just beside the soldier. The rest of the room was plunged into the shadows.

The boy sighed, relieved. Victoire knew him well, in spite of everything. Avoiding the toy, he threw himself on the bread. Out of the corner of his eye, he realized that the large armchair which had been facing the chimney was now moved. His father had probably spread his anger into the room and Victoire had cleaned, as always. He was about to swallow the soup out of the bowl when the tinkling of a glass against the chair alarmed him. A painful sigh came from the chair. His father's pale hair appeared on the back, and his father noisily laid his head on the back of the chair, afflicted by a terrible migraine. His voice was now only a raucous and broken whisper. The boy stopped moving and turned his head towards the chair and the portrait of Philippe de Chagny, half hidden by the shadows.

''You spend hours fixing this picture and no one knows why. You think we do not notice, your mother and me? You surely think he would have done better than me, I know. I know it. That's the reason why you won't talk to me, right?''

His father took a sip of alcohol. The boy discreetly put the porcelain bowl on the table. A craving to run away assailed him, acid anger rose up in his throat. But he did not move.

"He was no better than me, you know that, right?'' His father said. ''He sent me away when I was barely older than you, far from home, far from everything, when our father died. To perfect my education, they said at the time ... To be part of the Navy. Bullshit. And when I came back, the estate had been sold. Everything had been liquidated. Even the dowries of my sisters. There was nothing left. Nothing but this damned hotel. Even so... your grandmother had to help us to get it back. We could not even have bought a position in the navy. Almost everything spent, the damned fortune of my father. He squandered everything between the warm thighs of a dancer who was twenty years younger than he. Yet, he was worshiped like Zeus. They admired him, as you admire him. With worship. Bloody hell, he went between the thighs of almost all the Opera Populaire's girls, of all the fucking theaters actresses who hoped one day to become countesses ... And HELL that they beautifully sang, when he wanted to make them sing ... They had no choice ... No choice at all. Do you understand Émile? Do you understand that?''

The child remained motionless, staring at his father, who always turned his back on him. He swallowed. Raoul chuckled.

''Of course not, you do not understand ... Oh son ... You have the innocence of your mother, you know that? You look like her so much. And to your grandfather too ... I knew him, you know?''

Emile felt confused. He was scared. He wanted to leave. To run away. But part of him was fascinated by what his father told him. It had been a long time since the latter paid him any attention. Gently, he approached the chair and turned to face his father, curled up in the chair. He watched him for a moment. He looked at his father's long, pale face. Wrinkles, still shallow, already framed the blue metallic eyes and the fine mouth, lined with a large pale mustache. The long sideburns, in fashion, framed his hollow cheeks. He noticed that the blond hair, still beautiful, were rising a bit on his father's forehead. He had barely reached the age of thirty-one, this last winter and yet, he seemed almost forty. His father took another sip of bourbon. He continued his monologue, as if the boy no longer existed.

"He had the same feverish, dreamy expression as you. The same eyes and the same dark hair. God that he had told us ancient stupid tales, when we were only kids. Old bloody Gustave Daaé.'' His father chuckled, a bit. ''Not even his real name. To sound more french, he told me once. And your mother believed him so deeply. He was everything for her. Everything, you know? She loved him so much ... His Scandinavian goblins and his angels of death can go fuck themselves, now.''

The man paused, lost in his memories. He looked at his glass for a moment, thinking. He raised his head and calmly looked at his son with sorrow.

''You have no reason to envy anyone. Anyone, you hear me? Have you ever looked at yourself? In ten years, all the girls will throw themselves at your feet, Émile. They'll all want to be your fucking countesses. All will throw themselves at your feet. With the mouth you already have ... you will be spoiled by love. But Paris will eat you alive, if you stay like that. They will tear away what remains of your innocence, like hounds. They will accuse you of scandal. Without understanding. Without listening to you ... Without reading you... And then, they will drown you in the mud, hide you in the sewers until there is nothing left of you. Do you understand that?

Raoul glanced imploringly at his son. The dark eyes of the child looked at him with feverishness. But Emile kept his lips tight, as always. Raoul was crookedly sitting on the chair.

''The air of Paris stinks like a corpse. It stinks like carrion. Everywhere I go, it stinks like the sewers. It stinks like shit. It stinks of the ghoul. The ghoul hidden in the shade, with patience, waiting to swallow you. They say it's the catacombs that stink, but it is not true. It's the sewers that follow me. Everywhere. The money of the violin would have allowed us to buy a small house in Brittany, on the edge of the sea. Far from Paris. Your mother would have understood afterwards. Remember the sea, huh? You're too young to understand that, I suppose ... It's ... it's not your fault.''

The boy's father curled up in the armchair, hammered by his skull, like a child tortured by goblins.

''Go away, now. The toy is yours. I'll finish this drink. I need to be alone. Leave your mother quiet. She had a seizure, this morning. Victoire will give you your bath. I know how much you hate to take a bath. But God you stink. Go on now! Go away!''

* * *

 _This chapter had been beta-read by **Mominator124**. Thank you so much!_

 _This chapter has been edited for english synthax (08-01-17)_


	3. Chapter II : The Invitation

The kitchen, with its large stone walls, was always cool. Even at the end of October when outside the weather was gently mild for the season. The stove emitted a pleasant heat and the stew for the evening was already simmering. Sitting at the end of the old table, with his head in his hands, Émile looked with boredom at his new chalkboard, where his multiplication tables were listed out. His mind was already confused by the numbers. he sighed, sulked and poked the old wood and tried to create a military march. His nanny's floured hand settled gently on his to stop his gesture. The boy stopped moving, subdued, as always, by the tracing of the large interlaced and powerful veins on the ebony hand of Victoire, poised on his own, too pale.

"You will be to play the tunes you want when P'tit Monsieur has found how much eight times twelve is.

She gave him a wink and flattened the dough on the table with a firm gesture and no longer seemed to pay attention to him. He adored Victoire's voice. Her tone low and warm with colorful notes. His mother would have said mezzo. Mezzo, yes, that's it. Emile could not help watching the hands of his nanny work with strength and patience. Victoire had to be just a little older than his mother. She was smaller but so much stronger than her. She had large bones that protruded beneath her black skin. She had a rond little face, full lips and large eyes, as dark as his own. A strand of frizzy hair escaped from the ocher scarf she wrapped around her head. He would have liked to hear her speak a little bit more. He wanted to ask her to continue last night's story on the zombies of Guadeloupe and Marie Laveau, the voodoo witch who teleported to kill her enemies. Not these boring numbers. He really wanted to ask her that. But his chalkboard was full of multiplications that he had no right to erase, yet.

Defeated, he applied himself, and, in his finest handwriting, handed the answer to his nanny. She looked at him as if she did not see the answer she was waiting for. He hated it. She knew it. Victoire knew everything. He knew she pretended to be too busy to see so he had to tell her the answer. But he really wanted to please Victoire and he wanted to move on to a more interesting subject. He still wanted to hear that tale's ending.

"..."

"Yes, P'tit Monsieur?"

Émile took his courage in both hands. He whispered, as low as possible.

"… Ninety six."

She smiled and put a little more flour on the table.

"Now, twelve times twelve, Émile."

Disappointed, the child returned to his work. The young Creole gently began to sing, caught up by her work. When Victoire sang, the kitchen, even in the late autumn, became warm, like a garden in Louisiana. He could almost see the workers in the fields, the palm trees and the enormous magnolias, when Victoire let herself go, in this dank kitchen. Émile only understood a word here, a word there. He was glued to her lips. He would have liked to utter every word, to sing with her.

Guessing his attention, Victoire stroked his hair and continued to sing with those beautiful and exotic sounds he couldn't understand.

"Is this what you teach him, Victoire?"

Victoire stopped, and bowed her head, without expression.

" Madame."

Émile, aghast, recognized the crystalline voice and turned around to see his mother, who had just entered in the room. She never came into the kitchen. Anguisly, he hope she didn't hear anything. He could not remember the last time he had seen her outside her bed. She moved like a doomed bride, in her nightgown, in spite of the late afternoon hour. Her beautiful curly, light-chestnut hair cascaded down her shoulders and back as she walked like a pale, gloomy yet beautiful queen, wrapped in white silk, emphasizing her fragile body and her ethereal grace, even in her robe. She give a death stare to the servant with her grey eyes and focused on her, ignoring the boy.

"You have such a beautiful voice, Victoire. And a decent education, for someone like you ... Change that hair style of yours. We are in a civilized country here. Sing Faust to him. Sing Mozart to him. Sing Verdi. Please. Not those inarticulate, barbarous sounds, I beg of you.

Then she turned to her son and held out her hand. Victoire made a discreet sign to the child to rise and go to see his mother. Suddenly feeling an immense shyness, Émile came to give a cuddle his mother he now rarely saw. But he loved her warmth, her perfume. The contact of the silk against his face. He loved her voice, which was so different from Victoire's, but just as beautiful. He remembered so vaguely how people stopped them in St. Germain, giving her flowers and congratulating her on her last latest performance. People bent over and told him that his mother, Christine Daaé, had the most beautiful voice in France. He looked at her and smiled shyly. She stroked his cheek, lost in her thoughts. She hugged him and began to hum a lullaby, then she whispered to him, as if she was talking to herself.

"You must continue to practice music, even without a violin, darling. You will learn the piano in the meantime. You will play the piano for me, will you not? And one day the Angel of Music will visit you. My father told me that. One day he will also come to you."

She smiled at him with an air of complicity and stroked his nose with her fingertip. Emile's smile widened, showing the hole of his missing tooth, but his mother did not seem to notice it.

She looked up at the servant who seemed to be focusing on her task.

"Victoire, bring me tea upstairs. And please tell my dear husband that I will not be able to dine with him tonight. I'm not feeling well.''

"Very well, Madame. Should I also bring your correspondence? The Baroness of Castelot-Barbezac wrote to you. She invites you and your husband tomorrow evening to dine with her. And you have received as well a letter from the Persian, Madame.

The young woman's face became livid and Emile felt that his mother was crushing him against her chest for a few seconds. Anguish rose in his heart. He wanted to tell her that she was hurting him but he did not dare to hurt her feelings. She was still staring the servant.

"Answer the Baroness that it will not be possible ... and throw away those letters. Burn them, Victoire. Please.''

She then looked down at her son with a serious look on her face." Do not forget what I've told you. Practice everyday. Everyday. And the angel of music will be visiting you. Good night, my sweet Gustave."

She bent forward and kissed the child's forehead quickly and started to stand up, as if she wanted to get away.

"If you want to give the child names of people who do not exist, you should also call him Erik, don't you think? Is this boy not enough lost in his own mind like that? Gustave is dead, Christine.''

Émile did not move, but from the corner of his eye he saw his father's dark shadow in the corridor approaching with long strides.

Another fight. Again. Instinctively, he tried to hide behind Victoire but his mother's hands clung to him like claws.

Raoul walked into the room, slowly removing his black gloves, staring his wife. For a instant, she looked at him with real terror and Émile, frightened, wondered if she was going to faint or worse, suffer from another seizure, taking him down with her. But this comedy did not affect his father anymore. He managed to articulate calmly, in a rumbling tone, detaching each syllable, to be sure was he was saying was understood.

"Victoire, let our good friend the Baroness know that we accept her invitation with great pleasure and that we will be there, tomorrow night."

Christine released the child and he stepped around the table as far as possible from his parents. They looked at each other without saying a word, as if on the point of tearing out each others' eyes. But his mother, without a word, bypassed his father and went out exited with the same august poise, up to her rooms. A door slammed, upstairs. Raoul stared at his gloves, motionless. He seemed exasperated.

"And Victoire, reply to Monsieur the Persian that if he continues to bother my wife with his insanities, I will no longer hesitate to have the gendarmes arrest him."

He sighed heavily and threw his gloves on the floor, casting a weary look at his son.

"Dine without me. If someone's looking for me, I'll be in my office. Behave yourself and stay in your room son, will you? Do not bother Victoire. She'll already have enough to do looking after your mother tomorrow.

And he left the room without saying anything else.

Émile remained standing still without a word, looking at the doorway of the kitchen. Anguish gripped him. He felt that something important was beyond him. He wanted to see his parents happy, as before, but helplessness devoured him and crawled up his throat. He stifled a sob. Victoire's hands sat gently on his shoulders and the maid kissed his head.

"Come on, P'tit Monsieur. Twelve times twelve, now.''

* * *

 _A/N : Thanks to **Mominator124** , this chapter is in proper english! *Dance of joy*_


	4. Chapter III : Upstairs

_TW : Some scenes involves sexual content and violence._

* * *

Their whole home made him think of a gloomy battlefield. The morning began with cries, complaints and supplications. Then divorce threats had followed. They lasted till late in the afternoon. But Raoul de Chagny, buried in his office, remained inflexible and stayed silent.

Emile looked at this bad _vaudeville_ act with a bleak eye. He had hoped to take refuge with his nanny. But Victoire had no time for him, today. Left to himself, he rebelled and decided to go upstairs where the distant cries of his mother only reached him in a muffled sound. He was in the old music room, sitting on the floor in the diffuse light that the old shutters and the windows let through, chewing a piece of bread stolen from the kitchen, his old black velvet mask on his head. He had decided to examine his mother's old scores, worn by time. He had spread sheets of music around him, like a fortress supposed to protect him from the drama that was going on downstairs. He had found them in an old wooden chest under old, extravagant dresses. He had been taught music before his parents hoped he could speak. He remembered that. Music was his language. He had already found Faust, of which his mother had spoken so much. He had studied it. He could have played it, with his violin. But the one he was trying to decipher now was different. He had never seen it before. He could scarcely understand the writing, the red ink faded and became completely illegible at some points. But the music was baffling. He had never seen that. He did not understand the themes. The notes looked like little red dots, held together by an invisible and supernatural thread. The sounds seemed to be placed strangely but still formed a splendid harmony. He saw the balance, but it made no sense. He was fascinated. He tried to hum it but he had to stop, because his own voice seemed discordant. He never liked his voice but with this masterpiece, it was worse. This music had not been written for him. It had been written for his mother. He saw his name everywhere, on the margins. He folded one of the sheets and put it in his pocket. He would try to play it later, on the piano. Then he listened around him. The sudden silence of the house, peaceful, enveloped him.

Down below, the cries ceased. The daylight was declining. Discreetly, the boy went to the baby's room. He placed his head against the cradle and for a moment watched the shadows of the little toys in the last light of day. He did not understand what his father meant by saying that it was gloomy. This room was alive. It needed just a little imagination. He could feel the little Gustave laugh, he could almost see him running around, making big smiles. He had the blue eyes and blond hair of his father, Émile knew it. And he was sturdy. He saw Raoul and Christine at the door smiling at the games of their little child. He would have been three or maybe four by now. He saw them kissing tenderly with pride. He saw himself teaching Gustave how play violin. With big, complicated words. He sighed and blew on the toy to make it move. Then, rising furtively, he left the room when he noticed that the wooden letters near the chair had been moved. He recognized his first name. He shrugged. The room was above his. He knew that his mother came here often at night. He could heard her sing lullabies and rocking. He sometimes heard her cry. He could not help but shudder. It was time to go down.

He found Victoire in his mother's room. Silently, he watched her pick up the scattered outfits and put away the scattered expensive jewelry in his mother's box. She looked tired. She spoke to herself, in creole and it did not sound very nice. He noticed that she had flattened her beautiful hair and that she had tied it in a tight bun. It made him a little sad. The old velvet mask tickled the boy's nose, and he felt strange beneath it. As if no one could see it. And it was as if his vision of the world was limited to what the orifices of the eyes let him see, hiding what was not necessary. It was like living only with oneself, in the dark, looking through the keyhole for the lives of others. His parents had finally left. They were alone at home, Victoire and him. It was really weird, to feel that his mother was absent from the bedroom, absent from the house. Even if he didn't see her, she was always there. He could not help but feel some relief. He was happy to be all alone with Victoire, for once.

 _"_ _Ah, mesye a ti kras se tankou papa, li parèt nan manman bourik mwen an panse ke mwen pa wè."_

Victoria closed the wardrobe door, turned to look at the boy and gave him a mischievous smile.

"We are finally alone, _P'tit Monsieur_.''

She took him by the hand and they left the room. They spent a quiet evening, face to face. Victoire even served him some beer, in a small glass, teaching him to play dice. She let him win one or two times, loudly. But he eventually gave up and asked for a story.

His head was turning a little. The colors and sounds seemed a little brighter but all the rest seemed more hushed. Even his room seemed a little less eerie than usual. It was his grandma's room, his mother's godmother. She had died a little after his birth, he had been told. Her portrait was there, on the opposite wall. The wallpaper was a little yellowed, the heavy armchair next to the bed, with its cushions in outdated colours that match the curtains of the bed. The big crucifix and his grandmother portrait usually frightened him. But not tonight. He felt good. Victoire pulled the large curtains and put him in his huge bed and sat down next to him with a large book. With the mask on his forehead, as in the masked ball that Victoire had described to him, the boy felt safe. Émile felt his head grow heavy against the pillow and struggled to continue listening to the low and slow voice of Victoire who was reading the Count of Monte Cristo to him. He quietly closed his eyes for a moment. For the first time in months, he felt his anguish go away slowly. He felt he would reappear from the opaque depths, break the canvas bag that hindered his movements, on the surface of the sea. The burning air was filling his lungs after he had felt like drowning without escape. But that was now over and he could discover the treasure of Spada, with Dantes.

Then suddenly he opened his eyes, seized with terror. Victoire didn't hear that. She didn't hear anything. She was finishing her sentence, still bending over the book. Then, she stopped, staring at him.

The ceiling squeaked again. Then again. Slowly. Heavily. The noise moved heavily into the child's room above. It was not the wind. There was someone on the top floor. The boy glanced at his nanny. Victoire would soon tell him that it was simply a rat, upstairs. But Victoire stared at the ceiling. Her lower lip quivered. Another step was heard. Victoire held the boy's hand too hard. She whispered quickly.

"Don't move. I'll be back."

She clenched her lips, grabbed the lamp, and rushed noiselessly into the corridor, closing the door, leaving him in the dark room. He heard Victoire's discreet footstep on the staircase, and the noise that the last step always made. Then there was silence. He saw nothing in the room. He wanted to throw up. He heard another crack in the ceiling. Then a heavy noise upstairs. Like someone had fallen down. Emile held his breath for an moment. Then he heard the staircase squeak again. Victoire was coming down. He let out a sigh of relief. He waited impatiently for the lamp to illuminate the corridor and the room again. He waited, staring in the darkness. The shapes seemed to move around him. They seem to imprison him but he could not see a thing. Time seemed to stretch infinitely. He heard the bedroom door slam. Was Victoire playing a trick on him? He wanted to call to her, but no sound came out of his mouth, as always. The floor creaked around the bed. Then he felt that someone was sitting in his nanny's chair. He wanted to turn his head. But he could not. He was too afraid. He felt warm urine flowing down his thighs. On the chair, the shadow did not move. He let out a sob. Then he felt that the other was rising and he felt a breath on his neck. As if he had received a shock, he jumped out of bed and rushed as fast as he could toward the door, in the grip of a nameless terror, and tumbled down the stairs. He wanted to hide in the kitchen but it was closed. Terrified, he went to his mother's boudoir, which looked out onto the street. The glow of the streetlights feebly lit the velvet sofas, and the grand piano, half covered with a drapery, which occupied a corner of the room. Without thinking, he took refuge under the instrument, behind the cloth. The boy, soaked in urine, was shaken. He threw up as he gasped and he uttered a mute sob. He would have liked to call for help. Who had entered the house? Where was Victoire? He waited and waited, in the dark. He heard nothing. Shaking, his face inundated with tears, he bit his thumb. He realized that the mask was still on his head. He did not know how long he had been there.

Then he heard the creaking of the big door in the hall. He heard footsteps. Steps that came towards the boudoir. The door slowly opened. He heard the rustle of a dress and whisperings. His parents.

Her father had a strange hoarse sound and her mother was laughing funny. They seemed out of breath.

"Gently, gently Raoul ... You are going to wake them up ...''

"Nobody ever comes here ... It's half past four in the morning, Christine. The boy sleeps. Good Lord, what an amazing evening ..."

His father laughed a little.

"You realize, she did not even remember who she had invited! The expression she made when she saw us! And when you went up with her because she was going to throw up in front of everybody, after drinking so much! Did you sing her lullabies or what? She may now be a baroness, but she will always be a little foolish. Little Meg! From ballerina to baroness. Can you imagine? Oh, but she was delighted, at the end, when you agreed to sing. Oh my god, it's been too long since I heard you sing, Christine!... You were beautiful tonight. Magnificent. You're still so beautiful ... Oh my god I love you, Christine ... I want you now. I want you so much... It's been so long...

Émile listened, totally confused. He could not understand anything. A dangerous intruder was here and they had one of the most beautiful conversations they had for months. Fear mingled with total disarray. He was completely lost. He wanted to leave his hiding place to warn his parents of the danger when his father lowered the lid of the piano and put all the weight of his mother on it. The young woman wanted to protest but laughed and moaned. Emile was so ashamed that he slipped the mask over his eyes. He did not know what to do. He felt frozen. He felt trapped under the piano. He was paralyzed with anxiety.

His mother's dress and petticoat fell on the carpet, and her white ankles wrapped his father's feet, who seem to struggle with his clothes. Then, the boy saw his father's trousers on the floor. He heard his mother groan. His father tried to speak, his breath interrupted. One blow shook the piano, then a second. The vibration of the piano resounded in the boy's head like an earthquake.

"In London ... we could go to London ... or ... in America ... They're just waiting for you ... down there. A gentleman told me that tonight. He told me that they waiting for someone like you ... We could leave ... far from here ... _He_ will not follow us there, you ... you hear me?...There will be none of your ghosts to haunt you there. Not in America ... We'll be... at peace..."

The blows and the groans redoubled and the voice of his father became more hoarse.

"You will sing again... You will sing again... and ... and ... we will be like ... like before ... We'll have another child... like... and we'll ... we'll entrust Émile ... to some specialists and ...

He could hardly hear his mother whisper, but the boy listened, stunned. Suddenly, the piano hit the wall and violently hit the boy in the head. He instantly felt the pain radiate (throughout) his skull. Holding his head, he wished to leave without making a noise, to run towards Victoire, but it was too late.

Suddenly, his father stopped and his parents turned to him, clung together. His mother seemed to see him as if he had come back from the dead. She put her hands to her throat, her mouth opened, as if she wanted to scream, as if someone was trying to strangle her. Her eyes became empty. Émile wanted to speak, he wanted to explain himself. But the beautiful face of her mother had suddenly changed, as if she no longer controlled herself. Her father tried to embrace her to comfort her. But his mother no longer recognized anyone, she pushed him away with an inhuman force by a blow from the knee to the belly. Spasms began to agitate her body and a whitish froth sparkled from her mouth, down her beautiful chin. Her eyes rolled back and she fell on the floor, completely shaken by spasms, while his father, folded (up) by the pain, tried to withdraw his belt, shouting desesperatly for Victoire. But the servant didn't show up. He forced the belt into the woman's mouth, to prevent her from suffocating herself. He tried to talk to her, to calm her down. The seizure lasted ten long minutes.

Then his eyes fell on the boy, who was sobbing, standing, holding his head, his face full of vomit, and the pants soiled with urine. In two strides, his father threw himself on his son and the child felt himself rise from the ground. His back violently hit the wall as his father's left hand snatched the black mask from him and grabbed his face. Then the man forced him to look him straight in the eye, talking between his teeth.

"SAY IT! My father is a fucking monster. You know how to say that, huh? My father is a fucking monster. SAY IT! Stop these silly games now. You're not fooling anyone."

Emile was stifling. He did not understand. He wanted to obey but only one gurgle came out of his throat. Raoul shook him more violently.

"You can do better than that, little brat! I have already heard you, the other day. GO ON ! My father is a fucking mons—"

"Raoul, stop!"

His mother groaned and curled up, half naked on the carpet. She began to cry like a child. The man seemed to wake up from a nightmare and stunned by his own anger, he let the child down. He took his wife in his arms and lay her down delicately on a sofa. Without staring at Emile, he whispered softly at the child.

"Go to your room and stay there till I come to you."

When Émile returned to his room, he found the score's sheet, the one from upstairs, crumpled, under the door. The night had cleared and the shadows were no longer as opaque. Blood beat at his temples. He could still feel his father's fingers twisting his face. What monster was he talking about? He cautiously entered the bedroom, with fear.

It was empty.

* * *

 _This chapter has been kindly beta-read by **Mominator124**. Thank you so much!_

 _What do you think of the story, so far?_


	5. Chapter IV : Mister Strauss

He had waited all day, curled up in a corner of his bed. He was unable to move and stared at the door. The anguish petrified him. The rest of the house was crumbling under an infernal racket. He had heard big boots come and go in the corridors and upstairs. His mother's doctor came. He had examined the bump on his head and the bottom of his throat. The old man tapped the boy's head in a friendly way and left. Then a police commissar came and sat down in the chair, after staring at his grandmother's portrait. He was whistling. He said his name was Commissaire Mifroid and that he was a very good friend of his father. Émile had not been able to look him in the face nor answer any of his questions. He blocked blanked out"? or "blocked it out completely when the commissioner asked him if he had seen strange things between Victoire and his father or whether his father was violent with her. He insisted. Had his father threatened to kill anyone? The Commissaire asked him in a low voice if his father touched him in strange places. He asked him again and again if his father had said strange things about Grandmother Valérius. Or of Uncle Philippe. The cop pressed the child. Had Émile's father said strange things about his brother? Emile lowered his head even when the cop handed him his chalkboard and promised to erase everything afterwards.

The policeman , exasperated at last, rose up muttering to one of his men. "This kid is totally retarded. We won't get anything from him. Let's go."

He heard his father shouting insults at the Commissaire and the gendarmes leaving the house. Then the silence came. Émile curled hands around his body and put his head between his knees. Victoire was gone. She had abandoned him. Like Mrs. Savard. He remembered that woman who use to be his nanny, before Victoire. Why everyone was leaving him behind? His parents hated him. They were going to shut him up in an asylum, he was sure of it. When his father entered the room, evening had long since. He was wearing the same jacket and shirt as the day before, wrinkled and stained, and his blond hair was uncombed. He walked slowly and put a plate of stew on the nightstand then sat down heavily on the bed, dejected. He remained silent for a long moment looking at his hands and passed them over his face. Émile pressed his arms against himself and shrugged his shoulders. He was expecting the worst.

He heard his father's sobs. He could only see his back shaking uncontrollably. He couldn't believe it, but his father wept. Long, desesperate sobs. He approached and laid his head against his father's shoulder. The man slowly stopped crying and didn't move. He fondled the boy's head and seemed to calm, then sniffed loudly. "Your mother hates me. I do not even know if she has ever loved me. She hates what I have become. I know you hate me. I would hate myself, in your place, believe me. I ... I can not understand you. Both of you. Each time, it's like ... it's like plowing into an invisible wall and trying to break it without even scratching it. But you are both all that I have. All that remains to me. I need you. Both of you. God, I need you ..." He tried to compose himself by rubbing his eyes with his hand, still hiding his face. He cleared his voice, trying to take a light tone. "Your mother is feeling well. She's just a little tired. She is not angry. She just thought she was seeing some... nonsense, that's all. Not your fault. You know your mother has a bad sight. She's going to take more care of you now. It will do both of you good."

He was about to get up when the boy held his sleeve, pleading. His father sighed. "Victoire will not be able to take care of you for a while. She received a rough blow on the head, upstairs. But these people are strong. I know who did it and the gendarmes are going to handle it, don't worry. You can see her in a few days." The man got up, and stumbled heavily towards the door, his shoulders slumped. Half-opening the door, he cast a last sad glance at his son. "I would probably have pissed myself and hidden under the piano at your age, too, with what happened last night. But you'll have to grow up one day. But not here. Not here. Everything will change soon, Émile, that I promise you. And I do not want to see you upstairs ever again. You understand me? Your place is not with those dead things upstairs. Your place among the living, Émile."

* * *

When the boy passed through the corridor, he could not help but stop at the planks which barricaded the stairs leading up to the third floor. Her father had asked Madame Leblanc's husband to take care of it the next day. He leaned his head against the wooden planks, nailed in a hurry, slid his fingers between the cracks and looked at the milky light of daylight that lit up the abandoned staircase. He thought of the ghost of little Gustave up there. All alone in his raft, adrift. He saw the blond child sitting on the steps, looking at him, imploring him to come and play with him. He stayed there a moment. Then he sighed and continued on his way to Victoire's room.

He gently pushed open the door and watched the shape of the young creole in her bed for a moment. Her dressing had been redone on her head. She was sleeping. For two and a half weeks, that was all she had done . . . sleep. But Émile was relieved. He was standing there, gratefully watching Victoire's chest rise with her breaths when a sharp pain made him almost scream. Madame Leblanc had just entered behind him to pinch his ear hard. "What are you doing here? Little pig! You want to become as lazy as her? Go on! Go play somewhere else! Madame Leblanc was the concierge of the next door neighbors who had warmly recommended her. She came to clean, to dress his mother, to wash the linens and to prepare meals, while Victoire was resting. The news had spread in the gossip newspapers of Paris, it seemed. The boy had barely glimpsed the headline of the newspaper the maid had placed in the boudoir, before his father took it and tore it to shreds". Something about the _Phantom_. His father, too, did not like the concierge. He grumbled in a low voice that the magpie was there to better carry the gossip, but he (reluctantly had to accept the generous offer of the neighbors.

The boy smelled the cigar before he even reached the ground floor. He stepped down and put his ear to the office door. His father did not allow anyone to enter. It was his lair. Yet he had a guest. A man who spoke quickly and strongly in another language. He vaguely recognized it. English. The bursts of conversation that reached him were enthusiastic. Too much. Heavy steps were heard. Emile wanted to step back, but the door opened before the boy could slip away. For a few seconds, his father narrowed his eyes and frowned, about to enter into one of his explosions of anger. But his face took on an polite smile, far too polite and he firmly took the child by the shoulders, dragging him into the smoky room. It smelled tobacco, musk, and alcohol. "Mister Strauss, may I present my son Émile?"

The man who stood up from his seat in front of the boy gave the effect of wearing stilts. It seemed to him that there were only bones in this man. He had a long face full of angles, sunken eyes and the most expressive look that the boy had known. His nose was weird. Twisted. Something was not right about the man's body. But Émile couldn't tell what. The man bent down with a huge smile on his lips that revealed perfect white teeth, and held out a large bony hand to the boy. Émile recoiled and put his hands behind his back, pressing his lips together in the negative. His father smiled self-consciously and gently told the boy to move away. A frank laugh shook the man's broad shoulders. He smoothed his thin black moustache with a long gnarled finger, ran his hand over his bald head, and nimbly pinched the child's nose, raising his thick eyebrows while winking in complicity. Then he straightened up and gave a friendly clap to the Vicomte's shoulder. He took the bottle of scotch of his own accord, and poured himself a large glassful before pouring one for his father, without even asking. Émile was at once disgusted and fascinated. Mr. Strauss made a strange impression on him that he could not define.

The man handed the glass to his father and sat down, looking at Émile with a paternal and sympathetic air. The boy blushed.

"Please, Mister Strauss, excuse my—''

"Raoul, Raoul! Intelligent people listen! Let him sit, breathe and listen! That's how we learn! Right, kid? Good god he looks like his mother! You'll have to tell me where you found a woman as beautiful as Christine in Paris before I leave. Good God. And that voice, Good heavens! That voice! I had already heard of her in London, but at the Baroness', it was ... it was magnificent. You can not miss out with such a voice, Raoul. I immediately wrote to my partner, Abbey. We do not want to miss that. Not for the Metropolitan Opera House ... We need Christine, Raoul. We need her."

Émile listened to them half-heartedly. The man's accent intrigued him but he only vaguely remembered his mother's soprano voice. Behind his father's desk, between the scrolls of smoke and the dark green peeling paint, hung a map of the North Pole. An itinerary had been drawn in red pencil. On the left, a map of Africa, with small golden pins, all along the west coast. Plans of the Metropolitan Opera House were laid on the striped top of the mahogany desk as well as a map of America. Émile noticed that his father had already annotated the map with a pencil. Notes on angles, sea currents, knots were scrambled all over the map. The visitor gave a half-smile, sipped his glass, and followed with a perceptive glance to where the child was staring.

"Wasn't there a French explorer who lost himself at the North Pole?"

His father sighted and looked at the map with a smile full of regrets.

"Yes ... I was to participate in the research expedition to find him, but ... I saw Christine again at that time, we fell in love and ... everything happened so quickly. The marriage, our son... I went back to Africa several times, however. I had a business with some partners there four or five years ago, but Christine ... Well, my family needed me. You do not know how much I would have liked to see those icy landscapes, Mr. Strauss ...''

The visitor tapped the seat bench with good-humor.

"Fred, Raoul! Call me Fred! It seems that you are a good sailor, my friend! Have you thought about the quantity of goods imported in New York, the number of ships that drop anchor there each day? Now _there_ is a place for a man of your expertise, let me tell you! Have you ever mounted on _Le Normandie_? The boat is gorgeous. You know they're gonna convert it to electricity this month?''

He paused, took his cigar and gulped down a puff, which he blew out quietly, totally at ease. He pointed at the boy with his cigar, frowning, interested.

"And the little one, he has hidden gifts, like that?"

Raoul de Chagny looked embarrassed. He stammered, before taking a sip of scotch. He looked at the bottom of his glass, uncomfortable.

"He ... He is doing very well on the violin, I ... I must say. His mother now teaches him the piano."

"And he sings like his mother?"

The guest had leaned over his chair, at the height of the boy, and seemed to ask him the question. Émile turned his head away and stared at the ragged pattern of the carpet. The Vicomte sank into discomfort and looked at the bottom of his glass.

"He ... he does not speak. He had ... a violent bout of fever a few years ago ... and ... he does not speak anymore. We don't know why. He just... does not speak."

The visitor nodded sympathetically and looked at the boy for a moment. He smiled at him and he continued, softly.

"You know ... New York is bursting with eminent specialists(,) many of whom have been studying language disorders and human consciousness for years ... I'm sure this boy has a wonderful voice ... maybe ..."

Raoul de Chagny raised his hand to stop his interlocutor and filled his glass again. "If it were not for me, Frederich, I should already be aboard _Le Normandie_. With an offer like this! Who would refuse? But I have to talk to my wife, after all it is she who—"

The guest's face became preoccupied and his tone became serious. "We do not have much time, Raoul. I know Abbey. And better than anyone else. He was about to sign a contract with Nilsson. After all, the inauguration of the building is in three months. I convinced him to wait a little and to bring back this contract signed in due form but he will not wait indefinitely. I do not want that old rag of Nilsson to steal the show from your wife. Well, they both sing Faust very well, but that's all Nilsson sings! This place belongs to Christine Daaé. And not to anyone else.''

Raoul hesitated a moment and exhaled loudly, nervously. He paced and took the leather-bound folio from his desk and quickly flipped through a few pages. Émile watched the exchange between the two men, more and more anxious.

"Look, Fred ... I looked over this contract scrupulously and ... and everything seems perfect. Meg ... well, the Baroness told me only great things about you and the reputation of Mister Abbey is not to be denied ... But then, a three-year contract ... We have goods to manage in Paris and—

"Because you really want to come back to Paris after this contract, Raoul?"

His father stopped walking in circles and looked at his interlocutor, without replying. Mr. Strauss got up all the way and put on his top hat, which made him look even taller . Émile could not help staring at him. The American made him think of an undertaker. Still, a very nice undertaker. The latter patted the Vicomte's shoulder in friendly fashion. "I have a good friend who is quite savvy in real estate. He will sell this mansion in no time, and with a little compensation will find a new one in New York, in the best of neighborhoods. I'm leaving for New York tomorrow night, Raoul and I need this contract signed. Think about it, my friend."

He had reached the office door when he fumbled in his pocket and turned around quickly and threw something at the boy. Émile (caught) the little paper bag. English toffee wrapped in gold paper. Emile looked at the American, his eyes round, and smiled shyly. Mister Strauss gave him a wink and burst out laughing at the child's expression and leaned one last time towards the boy. "I really like this kid!" He lifted his top hat as a salute, then rested it back on his skull and left the room. They heard him humming, greeting Madame Leblanc. His father waited until the big door closed before giving a long sigh. Émile thought he was going to get angry. But his father smiled at him and stroked his head.

''I AM AN AMERICAN.'' Would you like to be able to say that, one day?"

* * *

 _This chapter has been beta-read by **Mominator124**. Thank you so much!_


	6. Chapter V : Music scores

A/N : I need help to translate this from french to proper english. And I need beta-reading! Thank you!

* * *

The house of his childhood was emptied, little by little. The solicitor, good friend of Mr. Strauss, had succeeded in the transaction in no time at all. The hotel had been sold at an interesting price and a townhouse in the Upper East Side, in New York was to be ready for them, at their arrival. The solicitor had shown them pictures from the outside. They had to leave in two weeks. Then he went away. Some of the furniture had been put up for sale and those that remained, too old, had been covered with sheets.

It looked like the hotel was full of ghosts. The strangest of them was the white form of his mother, draped in her silk nightgown and her shawl, walking with dreamy steps into the corridors, caressing the walls which had seen her grow too, Gently singing the lyrics of her next role. Émile could not remember hearing his mother sing for a long time. Hidden at the corner of the corridors, he listened, his heart pounding. The low notes rose and climbed to heavenly heights with an ease that was not human. He remembered the weird music sheet, crumpled, beneath his door. Its impossible notes passed from one extreme to another. Mr. Strauss was right. Her mother had an inhuman voice and her place was not here, hidden in this gloomy hotel.

His mother had at first refused Mr. Strauss's proposal. She had thrown the leather satchel through the dining-room as if throwing a bouquet of roses on which she had just cut her finger. Then his father had patiently picked up each of the contract's sheets, one by one. He had put them in order and had placed them in front of Christine, moving the inkwell in front of her. He had insisted. Then he had asked Emile to shut himself up in his room. Emile had heard his parents quarrelling. He realized that his mother was terrified. Terrified with all her being to go back on stage. He realized that his mother was hiding. In the depths of her bed she was hiding something terrible. She was running away from someone. But his father begged. Emile heard them speak in a low voice, without understanding. The next day his mother had signed the contract.

He met her in the Hall. She spoke in a low voice. A whisper. It looked like she was talking to someone. Someone who was no longer there. Then she stopped and they stared at each other in silence. She looked at him as if it was the first time she saw him. Émile was afraid that she would make another seizure. He saw again the foam on her chin, her reversed eyes and her spasms. He suddenly wanted to make himself invisible. He lie against the wall, lowered his head and closed his eyes shamefully, to let quietly pass this dreamy ghost. He heard the rustle of his mother's nightgown stopping in front of him and her cool hand taking hold of his chin and gently lifting his head. She smiled at him and held out her hand.

''Oh my darling. Come on and show me how you play on the piano, Émile.''

Hesitantly, the boy took her hand and she took him into the corridors of the hotel, down to the boudoir. There remained only the piano, which sat alone in the deserted room. The boy pulled back, but his mother gently guided him to the bench. She sat down at the piano and invited the boy to sit beside her. Faust's score had already been placed on the lectern. His mother turned the first page and turned to him. Emile looked down at the keyboard. He did not like the piano. He hated the sound of Faust on a piano. He sighed. He missed his violin. He missed so much. He push the first note like a stake in a coffin. The following notes felt similar. Then his mother began to sing, according to to the child's rhythm. Gently, patiently, her voice vibrated with his music. Emile had the impression that the entire Universe had stopped to hear his mother's song. The boy finally no longer looked at the score, carried away by the voice of his mother and began to hum, gently, the replies, then to answer them, freely.

His mother stopped for a moment, looking at the room entrance and put a finger on her lips. Emile heard vaguely footsteps coming out of the building behind him, but he was too obsessed with the score. They chained another page, as if nothing had happened. She stroked his head and kissed him, her eyes wet.

Then she turned the page of the score. She was about to resume her voluptuous song when she stopped. He looked up at her and saw her livid face, her mouth open, staring at the lectern. He recognized the yellow pages, almost illegible. He remained for a moment, stunned, staring at the handwriting in red faded ink. It was the page he had brought back from upstairs. It had been unfolded and placed there on the piano. He bent over the piano and turned the following pages frenetically. All filled with this strange, childish writing. The red dots, harmoniously disordered, filled the pages. Someone had put them in order. Emile looked at her mother. She stared at him, her eyes widened with horror. Suddenly, she got up from the bench and nearly knocked it down. She walked a few steps away from the piano, panting, her hands in her hair as if to tear them away.

''Émile ... Why ? Why do you do that?''

The boy curled up and stared at the lectern with incomprehension. The name of his mother, in a red and trembling handwriting, had been written all over the margin. The ink, unlike the rest, was fresh. He did not understand what this score was doing there. He had left it up there, in a messy circle, on the barricaded top floor. Her mother had set herself up in a corner of the room, her knees bent against her body, her hand on her mouth, as if to hold a cry. She was staring at him with widen eyes, as if he wanted to hurt her. Émile shrudded, he did not want to see her make another seizure. He wanted to protest but the words, as usual, remained stuck in his throat. He felt the air get scarce and his head dizzy. He would have liked to run to Victoire's room but remained petrified on the bench. Then he heard her stand up and he felt his mother's trembling hand rest on his shoulder. She was still trembling and weeping. Big tears ran down her cheeks but her eyes, tried to be reassuring. She wiped her tears and sniffed, before bending over and sticking her forehead to his, trying to soothe her sobs and trembling.

She closed her eyes for a moment to catch her breath. She took the child's face in her hands and planted her gray eyes in her own.

''You ... you're right. It's ... a interesting... music. It was written for me, you know. Just for me. But there are ... things that must be forgotten. There are things that must remain where they are. We must never play this music again, you understand? Never again.''

She put a moist kiss on her forehead and pressed it hard against hers. Emile dared not breathe. His whole body was on the alert. He felt the tears of his mother against his cheek and her sobs shake him. He understood that there would be no seizure. Not this time.

''This ... it does not matter, darling ... I do not take care of you enough and ... you need me. You need your _maman_. That's what you're trying to tell us, isn't it? I will pay more attention to you and I will be there now. I will be there.''

She got up and drove him off the bench. The boy, still in shock, let himself be led outside the room. Emile cast a last look at the piano and the pages on the lectern. His mother closed the door cautiously, as if she were locking out a monster.

He had spent the afternoon hidden in his father's office, who had gone to settle the final arrangements. The office, even with all its empty bottles, even with the thin traces of white powder that stained the carpet from here and there, was more quiet than the rest of the hotel. The cold tobacco smell was awful but all Émile wanted was to be alone. No one would dare enter this room and the white sheets ghosts were not yet invading it. His father had, however, begun to empty his drawers. He read a few pages, here and there, and found a ljournal. He noticed the note which his father had left on the front page. Africa, 1876-78. He was about to flip through the journal when an old cliché fell. He picked it up and frowned. He vaguely recognized the man, in the picture. A former partner of his father. He was naked, embracing his father and smiled at the lens. Emile felt the heat rise to his cheeks. What was his father doing with such a cliché? Nervously, he replaced the picture in the notebook and replaced it exactly where he had found it. He studied for a long time the map of New York, which his father had placed on the desk and observed the photographs at length. Something was wrong. This trip made him uncomfortable. He left the room before his father surprised him. Shame already overwhelming enough.

He went up straight to his nanny's room. He glanced at the barricaded staircase. A plank had been torn off and dragged along the corridor. Plaster pieces were piled up on the floor and on the stairs. Emile swallowed. The embrasure was just big enough for him. He took his head in both hands and stood for a moment looking at the gaping hole. He had not done that. He ... He was not certain, suddenly. The corridor began to turn. He rushed to Victoire.

Victoire walked up and down his mother's room. She was already stacking clothes in a small suitcase and had a dirty laundry packed next to her. It was a bit early to pack up but she could not stand there doing nothing. She stopped for a moment and made a grimace, her hand clasped on the left side. It still happened to her to have vertiges but they disappeared, little by little. She saw Emile rose and made a pale smile to him inviting him to join her. But her smile disappeared when she saw the tearful eyes of the boy. He sat in shock. She had heard hesitant notes on the piano earlier in the day but Emile now looked devastated. The boy entered and rush himself into the warm arms of his nanny. He heard Victoire stifle a groan of pain but she put her head on his shoulder, trying to comfort him. The child clung to her dress and hid his face in the woman's shoulder.

''There, P'tit Monsieur, what is all this sorrow? We're leaving soon. You should be happy?''

She raised the boy's head and crushed a tear with a finger, with a worried look, she brought her head to his and whispered as low as possible, gently, examining his face and shirt, looking for bruises.

''What happened ? Did he hurt you again?''

The boy raised his head and stared at her. Victoire shrudded, seeing the boy's despair. He blinked. His inferior lip was shaking. His throat was burning atrociously and ideas were jostling in his head. It was too much. He finally took his chalkboard and wrote, with a shaken handwriting.

 _Who is the Phantom of the Opera?_

Victoire suddenly ceased to touch him and stared at him in silence. Her eyes widened and an deep expression of relief and amusement lit up her features and a wide smile appeared on her face. She burst out laughing, which hurt her. Cramped in two, she made a grimace to the boy, trying to regain her breath. She mimed fangs, as if she was going to tell a frightening tale again, with a thunderous voice.

''My god! It's even worse than the Royal Street's vampire that kept you from sleeping for a month! You could see it everywhere! Everywhere! Are you sure you want to hear that story?''

She was going to smile again, but the boy's frightened expression alarmed her. She tried to dissuade him, gently.

"Emile. Do not listen to everything your mother tells you. Her angels of music that appear in the mirrors ... These are sfairytales, all that. It's not healthy, come on. "

She sighed, in front of the boy's impassive expression. She resumed her seriousness and knelt in front of him and stroked his cheek.

"I was still in Louisiana, at that time, you know ... All I heard was gossips from the neighbors. It happened just before you were born. Your mother was singing at the Opera Le Pelletier. Before it went on fire. It seems that she sang there that evening. And they told all sorts of wacky stories on this Opera. It was said that the Opera was haunted. That there was a lake, below ... The gossip says that your mother ...''

''VICTOIRE !''

The voice of Raoul de Chagny had roared throughout the hotel. He stood, in the corridor, at the entrance of the staircase, his hands clenched, glancing at the maid. He could scarcely contain himself. Behind him stood Madame Leblanc's husband, with his ragged face and his crooked teeth. He tightened his cap and tried to glare over the Vicomte's shoulder.

"I tell you, Monsieur le Vicomte, Mister Leblanc said. Your son did that. I've heard, Mister Viscount that when they have no brain, like that, they have a inhuman strength when it takes them. I did well, my job, I tell you, those planks are well nailed. See? Besides, I have not received the promised payment ...''

Victoire rose and stared at both men.

''It was already there this morning when I woke up. It's not Émile who did-''

The Vicomte turned to the concierge with a disgusted expression and threw a handful of francs over the railing leading to the ground floor. The workman rushed to collect the money.

The Count stared at the man with disdain before turning to the nurse.

"Since you seem to have recover and do not know what to do with yourself, go and help Madame Legrand in the kitchen, Victoire."

The young Creole bowed her head, bowing obediently, she gently took the bundle of linen she had placed on the bed, which seemed to weigh a ton, and went out without looking at her Master, she cast an anxious glance at Emile and the boy saw her go down, a little too quickly. He raised his head to look at his father. The man stood there, motionless, to gaze at him bitterly. He had the score in his right hand. He seemed so disappointed!

''You've disobey me, Émile. Again.''

He turned round without a word and went down the stairs heavily. Émile wanted to hold him back. To explain that it was not his doing. But it was too late.


	7. Chapter VI : Manhattan

In the early morning of December, the first view of Manhattan appeared on the horizon. A huge dark brick circular building, slowly appeared between the waves in the pink morning sky. They were hundreds, piled on the second deck, waiting for the docking of the ship. It was cold and there was a bit of frost on the ramps. Émile's mother held him firmly against her. Somewhere, a hungry infant was screaming. The same one which had kept them awake at night from the beginning of the journey. Next to him, a blonde girl with dirty cheeks and wearing strange clothes, stared at him, with big blue eyes. Condensation billowed from her lips, in small puffs and she shivered. She was surely from the 'tween-deck. A man whispered something Gaelic in the ear of his wife, pointing at them. An older woman approached Émile's mother and spoke to her in a language he did not understand. She touched the fabric of his mother's ocher silk dress with admiration, but Christine seemed to tell her to go away in the same dialect. The woman crossed herself and spat out what sounded like a flood of insults. Raoul glanced anxiously at his wife, who persisted in staring at the coast without blinking. The journey had been difficult for her. They had embarked from le Havre a week ago. They had succeeded in renting two cabins. One for Raoul and Christine and the other for Victoire and Émile. It was probably the maid that some passengers stared at, with disgust. His parents had agreed that she would accompany them in the cabin, for her safety. Strauss's small advance and their meager savings had managed to save them from steerage.

Émile had seen his father transformed aboard the ship. Even his mother had left her cabin, wearing her new hat and her furs, to accompany him on the desk of the First's passengers class holding Emile by the hand. Victoire followed a few steps behind, always glancing nervously behind her. They had looked like the perfect wealthy family. His father seemed to be enthralled. He explained to all who wished to listen to him the marvels of the French steamship. He had pulled up Émile on his shoulders to show him the two large smokestacks and the propellers, to the delight of the passers-by. He had explained to his son that large mats and ropes were no longer useful, with the new technology. Raoul looked enchanted. Some more fortunate passerby had recognized his mother and greeted her from afar. Christine Daaé had replied with grace. A lady, the wife of a renowned businessman from Paris, had asked the young singer if she would do them the honor of a little private concert. The industrialist had seemed confused when Raoul had explained to him that Christine would inaugurate the Metropolitan Opera House but he had shrugged and shaken hands with Émile's father. When time came, in their best evening clothes, they presented themselves at the private suite of the businessman. The butler had pushed them back to the door, saying that his master's wife was ill and wished them luck in New York. Christine had come back, livid, and had not left her cabin for the rest of the trip again. Raoul had continued to wander on the deck alone the rest of the journey.

Victoire, on the other hand, had seemed nervous the entire journey. Certainly there were other black servants, like her, on board but they were rare on the ship. She sometimes went out at night, to go take the air she said. Émile had followed her on the sixth evening and had surprised her in conversation with a man who, obviously, was a passenger of the between-deck. He was much older, of medium height, with a salt and pepper beard, a swarthy complexion, and small round, golden glasses. His tweed jacket was a little worn and he wore a strange hat but he looked like an educated man. They whispered and Victoire seemed angry with him. He put his hand on her shoulder while speaking to her in a low voice and she seemed to calm down. Émile had felt strange. He did not want anything else to happen to the young woman. He had come out of his hiding place behind the life boat and had made his appearance, ready to shout, if it were really necessary. Upon seeing him, Victoire had jumped. The man had stepped away from her, also surprised and approached him. He had looked at the boy for a moment, examining him from head to foot, with a warm smile. Émile thought for a moment that the man had tears in his eyes. Then he had greeted Victoire in English. She had greeted him with a "Good night, Daroga" and the man had gone below again. Victoire looked embarrassed. She had taken him by the hand, to take him back to his cabin, with a bored smile.  
"You jealous little boy! You will understand, one day. You will understand everything one day. Come on, let's go see what happens to Moby Dick.''

The landing was horrible. The port of Castle Garden was crowded. Carried away by a human wave, they had to fight for over an hour before they could get their luggage and access the main building, which stood in front of them. They were told that their luggage had been taken by a valet of Monsieur Strauss and awaited them in their new home. The air was damp and cold and they had to queue to check in. There were thousands and thousands, arriving from different boats, with their meager possessions. Many seemed just as lost as they were. Émile had never seen so many people or heard so many languages at once. It was a cacophony. He saw the little blonde girl for the last time, taken away by her father. In the building, the wait lasted for hours. Émile's feet were cold and his teeth were chattering. His beautiful jacket was not warm enough. Victoire covered him with her own shawl. The building's huge windows were letting in December's cold light. Raoul was looking frantically into the crowd, searching for a tall man. But where was Strauss? And the Press, yet so fond of the arrival of new artists, should have been there. No one had greeted them. No not a soul.

They eventually got their forms filled out. The official, an obese man who chewed his words cut off his words, had asked for their names, where they would lodge, if they had family and gave them their papers with a condescending air. Exhausted, it was after four o'clock in the afternoon as they finally left the building. They went out of Castle Garden, thronging with a motley and dirty crowd. New York finally appeared to them, gray and noisy. They were once again fighting to get out of the crowd. Execrated. Extricate, Raoul was going to hail a carriage when he saw a top hat above the crowd. Mister Strauss beckoned to them, with a big smile. Dragging their hand baggage with misery, they finally made their way to him. Frederich Strauss grinned from ear to ear. He enthusiastically squeezed Raoul's hand and complimented the young soprano with effusion. He seemed delighted to see them.

He pressed to give them a tour of the city before they were taken to their new home. Raoul refused politely. Mr. Strauss nodded. "I understand, I understand ... the administration here is slow and awful. Anyone would like to have peace after all this."

He turned to Émile, smiling. He offered him a candy. Émile threw himself on it and stuffed it into his mouth. He had eaten nothing since early this morning and hunger was driving him. He loved these sweets. Mr. Strauss patted his head and held out his hand.

"But the boy still has energy to spare! Especially after eight days forced to be quiet on a boat! We need action, eh, Émile? What if I took him for a ride? There is a beautiful zoo in Central Park. Have you ever seen a dromedary ...?  
Raoul smiled in embarrassment and glanced at his wife. She looked at the sea in the distance. She turned slowly to her family. She glanced at Émile and frowned, a little worried. "It is quite lovely of you, Mr Strauss, but we do not want to take your—

Raoul sighed and interrupted his wife in a polite tone. "It will be great for Emile to take some fresh air, for the rest of the evening, while we are getting a bit of rest, don't you think, my dear?"  
The boy blushed and looked at his parents imploringly. He hardly knew Mister Strauss. He felt nervous, uncomfortable. He was divided between fear and curiosity. Mister Strauss seemed so friendly and he did not take him for an idiot, he ... Was Victoire going to accompany them? He doubted it, there would be too much to do at the new house. He felt the last bit of caramel melt in his mouth. He would have liked to ask for another. But the thought of being alone with Monsieur Strauss distressed him. He could not say why. He wanted to go to the zoo. He had heard so much in the books—

"NO FUCKING WAY. Take your dirty hands away from the child, you bastard!''

"Behind them, Victoire's voice had burst forth, in perfect English. She gave a deadly stare to Strauss and shoved Raoul (aside) to grab Émile by the shoulders and press him against her chest like a wild beast protecting her young.

Some passersby turned and stopped to watch the scene. Strauss, livid, wished to protest, casting a questioning glance at Raoul, who had turned towards Victoire, boiling with rage. Christine stared at her maid with contempt. The uneasiness lasted much too long for Mr. Strauss. His broad smile came returned, though a little more pinched.

"Very well. If ... if your maid insists." He stressed the word "maid" by refusing to look Victoire in the eye. "Everyone is exhausted, it's understandable, it makes sense ... I called you a cab. We will talk tomorrow, Raoul ..." He raised his top hat as a salute and pointed to a carriage, which was waiting on the other side of the he vanished into the crowd, humming.

His parents exchanged a glance. Christine was pale and looked nervously at the people around her, who stared at them. She took her son by the hand, and without even looking at the maid, pulled him by force to the carriage. Victoire started to follow them, but Raoul stepped in her way. Émile turned round, distressed, and saw his father hand money to Victoire. He watched from afar as Victoire burst into tears, then take his father by the sleeve and beg him. His father dropped the money in the street and walked with a firm step towards the carriage, with a neutral expression on his face. The boy tried to free himself but his mother's nails dug into his skin. He struggled and seeing that his mother would not let go, he bit her and rushed to the servant, who begged her Master to forgive her. But the Vicomte grabbed the boy, gave him a whack, forced him into the cab and ordered the driver to leave. The boy hurried to the window and looked for Victoire. She stood there, in the street, alone, her body shaking with sobs, with her little suitcase, watching the carriage go. Then he felt his father take him by the collar and throw him, softly, on the bench.

"Bloody Hell, Émile! She's only a maid. She comes from America. I gave her enough money to return to her family in Louisiana. It will be better for everyone. We will not have room for her here and you're old enough to take care of yourself now. You're going to be nine years old, for god's sake. You don't need a nanny anymore. It is time for us to take better care of your education. Is that not so, Christine? Christine?"

Christine looked at the street, through the window, holding clasping her hands, without expression. Her right glove was torn and there was a blood stain on it. Along in her silence, Raoul sat on the opposite bench, totally exhausted looking at his family with a distressed air. The rest of the journey was made without a word. Emile could no longer see anything of the misty landscape surrounding the carriage, as tears blurred his eyes. He was still looking for Victoire.

After what seemed like an eternity, the coachman ventured into the darker streets of Manhattan. Around them, several families of immigrants were traveling with carts carrying their belongings. The child heard words in a guttural tongue. The neighborhood in which the coachman was driving was poor. Very poor. The coachman stopped for a moment as young children cut across the road, passing too close to the horse's hooves. A shower of insults was exchanged, in both English and German. The storefronts of Jewish shops lined crowded avenues. His father frowned and knocked brutally on the roof of the carriage.  
"But what is this mess?" You were to take us to Orchard Street."  
"We're here, sir."  
"The front of the house shown to them by the driver in a cliché appeared on a street perpendicular to an extremely busy street. Raoul argued for twenty minutes with the coachman. They were at the right address. In front of them appeared a house that had once been pretty. There was a butcher's shop on the other side of the narrow lane that separated the two buildings. The beautiful white paint needed to be redone. The third step of the portico, formerly of varnished wood, had been damaged. The lock was broken. As Raoul approached to open the door, a squat old woman appeared on the threshold of the door, gauging them from head to foot, with an embarrassed air. Her hair, which had once been red, escaped from her headscrarf. Her dress had seen better days. Her apron was stained and she smelled of boiled cabbage. Her English was weighted with a German or perhaps Russian accent. Even in English, it was difficult to understand her.

"You're the french couple? Chaneeee, that's right?"  
Raoul stared at her for a moment, horrified, and turned to the coachman who was closing the door of the cab, spitting on the sidewalk. He climbed back into his coach and set off again.

The old woman seemed to ignore Raoul's discomfited face and gravely pointed inside. She spoke, slowly, in French, using poor syntax.  
"Chaneee? Apartment four. You have apartment Four. Appartement quatre"

She waved her four swollen fingers at the top of the building with dirty windows then pointed at Émile with a suspicious air. "Your friend not tell me there was a kid. No kids! I do not want kids in appartments. They gonna run all over the floor and disturb everyone. Not want the kid to run all over the floor! There's people downstairs!"

Raoul de Chagny stared at the old woman incredulously. She let them pass and made a tired sign for them to go upstairs. She was living on the first floor. Strong smells of food assaulted them at the entrance. She led them into a dark corridor. They climbed the stairs with difficulty. An old man, of Jewish appearance, pulled his head out of the adjoining apartment and grumbled in his long beard. He slammed the door as they passed.

The old woman opened the door without even taking out her key. "They came to deliver your luggage. They made a lot of noise."  
She swept the space (with) her plump arm. The apartment barely contained three rooms. In front of them stretched the common room, without hall or antechamber. The paint, yellowed by the smoke of cigarettes, was peeling off. There had been a flood. Although the moldings gave some interest to the room, the chandelier on the ceiling was not quite level?. The wooden floor had been badly scratched. The shabby furniture was badly arranged, obviously coming from _marché aux puces_. The sofa, Napoleon style, had once been luxurious. It was now discolored and one of the arms needed mending. The coffee table was gouged. An dilapidated green armchair was facing him. An old piano had been placed in a corner near the window. In the other corner of the room, a simple wooden table and four chairs had been piled up. Mismatched dishes had been arranged in an enormous colonial-style wardrobe. The window had been broken.  
"There's a bed in the back room and all the furniture you need. Your friend brought you a piano. But I do not want to hear piano past nine o'clock. You hear me? No piano past nine. The boy can sleep on the couch. I'll find him a bed. But NO RUNNING!"It's a good house, here. Not like Essex street. Toilets on the first floor. Not in the back yard like Essex Street. The rent ... three dollars. Three dollars per month. Paid on the first of each month. Hear me? And for cleaning and food, it's two dollars more. And I'm not taking care of this kid.''

She hobbled into the apartment, walking with difficulty on her swollen ankles and wanted to show them the bedroom and the kitchen but she stopped when she noticed that she was not being followed. She made an exaggerated pout. She was probably going to tell them that she did not have the whole day when Raoul de Chagny interrupted her.

"But surely this is a jest?" How much is Strauss paying you for playing this comedy? You can stop now. I'll pay you double. We are tired. We want to be home. You understand ... Mrs. ...?"  
The woman advanced heavily towards Raoul, bored. She stopped a step from him, raised her head and stared at him with her little eyes, looking bad-tempered and then cast a disgusted look at the boy./span/p

"Olga Saganova. Concierge. Your first month, already paid. Deposit is paid. My rules. The child does not run in the house and not on the steps. No shouting. The child play quiet. Dinner served at 7 o'clock. Now, you want to see the room or not?"  
A wooden bed, just large enough for two people, had been placed in the corner of a dark room that a tatty old pink wallpaper, was trying to brighten. A night table had been placed next to it with an oil lamp. Their luggage had been abandoned at the foot of the bed, in a complete mess. Someone had spilled the contents on the floor, looking for valuables. Christine's petticoats had been scattered across the room. The couple stepped into the room, horrified. The concierge stared at them and glanced sullenly at the mess.  
"I just did my job. They had your luggage. Your friend paid me, I brought them in. And that's all." With a tired expression, she turned back, walking painfully on her swollen ankles, grumbling ''I just did my job.(delete space)''

Émile heard the front door shut again. He wanted to follow his parents into the room but his father stopped him with a glance. The boy remained in the entryway, staring at their scattered luggage. He had an acrid taste in the mouth. It wasn't like before, in their mansion in Paris when he knew there where to hide ... Now he was choking. There was nowhere to conceal himself. Raoul tried to hug his wife to reassure her but she uttered a muffled cry and rushed to one of the crates, broken. She opened it and began to search frantically. She found a small trunk and spilled its contents on the wooden floor. Trinkets spread out and rolled on the ground. But the diamonds, the sapphires that suited her so well, enlighting her fragile beauty, silver and gold... All was gone.

"My jewels ! They took …. They took all my jewelry!"  
She looked around, completely maddened, rubbing her hands between her fingers. She could barely breathe and gave Raoul an imploring look, her voice was but one breath. She wanted to hug her husband, trembling, as if her life depended on it.  
"They took my ring ... my golden ring that _He_ had given me ..., Raoul. I ... I had removed it from my neck for the trip and ... and put it in my chest before leaving ... It ... it is no longer there ... It is no longer there ..."  
Émile remembered the ring. Her mother had always hidden it, at the end of a chain that she wore around her neck, under her nightgown. When she thought herself alone, she often spent hours manipulating it, distractedly, looking out the window. The boy remembered his mother's sad look and her attachment to the jewel. Émile had always believed it was his grandmother's wedding ring but when he saw his father's reaction, he knew something was wrong. Raoul recoiled, horrified, staring at his wife as if she were a stranger. The revulsion took hold of his features and he bellowed, at the top of his voice.

"You're kidding, right? You (-kept that? UNDER MY ROOF? For the past ten years? I thought it was all over. You're mad, Christine. Totally mad."  
"The young woman tried to cling to him but he pushed her away, completely disgusted. Her face smeared with tears, she begged.

"You do not understand. I must wear it. I _must_ wear it. We must find the ring, Raoul. Otherwise, _he_ 'll come back, you ... you know and it will be terrible ... terrible ... You remember ... He'll come back and ... he'll take us into the darkness ...  
"You're crazy, for God's sake! You're delirious, Christine. All this was ten years ago. I do not want to remember that. I am no longer able to live with this. I sold everything to come here and have peace from this crap, so—"  
"Raoul, you do not understand ... You don't understand! He's going to haunt us, he—"  
"But aren't you have finished with this fucking crap?!"

Three or four loud bangs were heard suddenly in the floor, then in the apartment next door. Insults muffled by the wood of the floor were heard. Raoul glared at his son, and left the room with long strides and thrust his top-hat on his head, and shouted in the living room.  
"Enough! I've had enough, Christine. Strauss and Abbey will learn that the joke has gone too far! They will have to deal with their shit and double the contract's price, if they want to see you sing in their bloody inauguration, I SWEAR!"  
"The sound of the door slamming made the boy jump. He glanced helplessly at his mother, who undid their luggage with a confuse look, looking for her ring. He could not do anything. He still felt anger against her and his father. An anger that melted into a great void. He quietly left the room.

* * *

 _This chapter has been beta-read by Mominator 124._

 _P.S: I change Ellis Island for Castle Garden, which is more historically accurate._


	8. Chapter VII : The last Performance

His father returned the next day, late at night. He stumbled noisily on the wooden staircase and tried to open the door of the apartment next door, generating a shower of insults in hebrew. Then he slowly opened the door of their apartment and tried to enter noiselessly but collapsed heavily on the threshold. His hair was damp. Émile noticed that he no longer had his top hat or his alliance. His coat was soaked with snow and stank of smoke. His boots were stained with mud. The boy had fallen asleep on the couch waiting for him. He heard his mother rushing towards his husband and stopping, nervously, rubbing her right hand. Waiting for what her husband was going to say, waiting with feverish anger for the facts that he was going to tell them. She stood before him, livid, as if ready to jump in his face. Raoul raised his head, wretched, towards his son and his wife and smiled at them, sadly.

"Strauss ... He ... he trapped everyone. Even Meg ... the Baroness. Her husband now talks about divorce. They lost a fortune. She's nearly homeless now. She staying with her mother. The Metropolitan Opera House is not even finished. They have barely laid the foundation for it. They are fighting because they have already exceeded their budget. We lost everything, Christine. Everything. I'm so sorry.  
Raoul painfully tried to get up but had to catch himself on the doorframe. He stepped to his wife, dizzy, and pulled out something of his coat pocket and clumsily put a golden ring in her hand and closed it gently. He whispered, head down, "But we don't care. I came here to start over again. To leave all these ghosts in Paris. There's nothing worse that can happen to us, right? I love you, Christine. I love you with all my heart. You know that. We'll find our place. And even your Erik, your angel of darkness, will not take it away. I ... I managed to make an appointment with Abbey. We'll take the child, he must have a heart, right? We'll put the deal under his nose and ... he'll see your talent. You are the best soprano in the world. He will not have the choice of accepting to take you.

Christine smiled back and raised her hand to stroke the dirty hair of her husband and looked at him with tenderness. She swallowed softly, put the ring back in his hands and held them for a long time without a word. Raoul understood. A simple gold ring, found in a _marché aux puces_ , would not be enough to make them forget the extent to which he had harmed his family by accepting a pure stranger's contract. And that would not be enough to calm his wife's obsessions. The old Jew in the apartment next door could still be heard banging against the wall, cursing them. Raoul took a deep breath and gave a bitter laugh. Then, striding towards the wall of the common room, he threw his fist with all his might the plaster. The wall cracked. One could see the eye of the old man, looking incredulously at the neighboring apartment. With madness in his eyes, Raoul shouted through the wall, "Shut up, old fool, shut-up!''

"The old man in apartment five stayed quiet. A heavy silence had return. Only the streets noises could be heard.  
Raoul stepped back and looked at the wall, his fist covered in blood and stumbled to the room. "The appointment with Abbey is ... is in ten days. I'm counting on you, Christine."

* * *

Lying on the old couch, Émile could not sleep. It was supposed to be four o'clock in the morning. One of the cushions, was lumpy hurt his back. In vain, he changed position, but the couch remained uncomfortable. He heard the breathing of his parents in the other room. He could not help scrutinizing the fissure of the living room wall nervously. In Paris, he always felt that he was being watched by his grandmother's portrait in his room. Here, he heard the old man come and go, in silence, in the neighboring apartment. Was he spying on them? He heard the neighbor whisper. A dispute between a man and a woman resounded somewhere in the street, then quieted down. At last, the boy got up discreetly, opened the window and sneaked onto the iron fire escape, wrapped up in a blanket. He shivered and pressed his arms against himself and took in a great breath of air. One or two flakes of snow fell, here and there, illuminated by the too few street-lamps. The air was damp and cold and the shadows thick, but Émile felt a sense of belonging. New York never slept, but for a moment it had calmed down. The city was silent. Enough for the boy to distinguish a sound he knew well. Somewhere in the alley adjoining their edifice, a violin was played softly. The boy leaned over and wanted to see who was playing, eager to hear the notes of the instrument. The melody was slow and sad, and every stroke of the bow sounded like a deep sob. The player didn't played that well but he didn't care. How he would have liked to go play that violin!

Hazardously, the boy wanted to go down the creaky staircase - which passed the window of the neighboring apartment - to see better but the melting snow made it slippery; he moved forward as best he could and looked into the darkness. Three floors below, in the alley, he saw the silhouette of a thin man. The man's face was masked with scarves and rags but the shadows did not allow him to see more. The piece ended. Émile applauded discreetly. He wanted the man to notice. He wanted the player to get closer, but the man remained in the shadows, out of the boy's view. He wanted to ask him to play another tune. But the violin stopped and the shadow seemed to bow to him. Emile peered into the darkness and wanted to take another step. His foot slid down an icy step. He felt the staircase moving and shifting under his weight and felt his body start to fall when a big white hand, dotted with brown spots, caught him by the shoulder. Their neighbor, his torso passed through the window, grabbed him by the blanket. The man looked at him, his nostrils dilated, his eyes black under thick bushy eyebrows. The light made a lugubrious shadow effect, heighten the angular features on the creased) face of the old man. For a second, Émile recalled everything he had heard about the Jews. Their heresy, their sabbaths, their mass of blood, their human sacrifices, their greed, their wickedness. In Paris, everybody said it, in the streets, the Jews personified the evil. The child was petrified with terror. The man was going to throw him down from the third floor. He felt that the other was losing his grip and letting it go. They remained for a moment staring at each other, then painfully, the man pulled him onto the balcony, grumbling. Afraid, the child remained still, trembling under his blanket.

The old man sighed. He cleared his throat, and in a voice from beyond the grave, gravelly and rough, began to lecture him in a low voice, in Englishwith a strong Germanic accent. "Careful. The stairs no safe. You wait on the balcony. He's going to come back another night. The violin. It has been there ever since you and family were here. I know that. I'm too old to sleep. I'm listening. I see things, you know. I see all the secrets. And your parents have tons of them. Tons. I know the violin is there for you. It has followed you. It has followed your doom."

Émile remained mute. He did not understand. The man narrowed his eyes and watched him for a moment, grumbling in his long bushy beard, then beckoned him to wait. The old man returned to his apartment and Émile heard papers rustle. Then, the old man pulled out his head and handed a large book to the boy. Émile stared at the old man for a moment. Exasperated, the neighbour waved the book under the boy's nose. He pointed three or four words to the child, browsing gently through the pages with a wet thumb and a yellowed nail. He handed the book back to the child, who took it timidly.

"Dictionary. French and English dictionary. To learn English. To learn French. My son Ishmael wanted to go to France. He died before he could was able to. Cholera. Now, it's yours. See? The violin's player is following you. _Violon vous suivre. Sera là demain aussi._ He was not there before your arrival. _Le violon pas là avant vous._ Keep it. Now go to bed and try not to smash your head downstairs, boy. Yevarechecha hashem veyishmerecha."

He pulled his head back into his apartment and closed the window again. Prudently, the boy made the journey to his own (apartment/quarters/living quarters/home) and went inside.

* * *

With his eyes wide open, Émile waited for beggar's music. The violin's player had returned the previous day and the day before, and the day before that, always about the same hour, just past midnight. The apartment was silent. His mother had succeeded in finding a replacement role, in an obscure theater on Broadway street. She would not be back for another hour or two. His father, who had to watch him, had put him to bed and, thinking that the boy was asleep, had gone out. They would not see him again until morning, completely drunk, as usual. It had almost became a routine.

The violin player was late tonight. Emile had opened the window to better hear the arrival of his mysterious musician and shivered. The temperature had drastically dropped and it was colder than in France, here. Then he heard the first note. Carried away with joy, he passed his head through the window and cautiously slipped on the balcony, wrapped in a thick blanket of wool. Only the light from the building next door lit up their balcony. Their neighbor was asleep, probably. They didn't heard him for days. Was he all right? Inside, everything looked black. But Émile did not dare disturb him. The iron of the balcony was frozen. Always lurking in the dark, the beggar played, despite the cold, a furious air. Emile recognized the music. _The Revival of Lazarus_. He felt that the beggar was playing only for him and despite the bite of the air, he felt his heart warm.

Someone in the neighboring building shouted to the musician to go play elsewhere. The musician stopped and despite the shadows, Emile had the impression that the violonist was turning towards him the boy and raised his head to look at him. He walked a step and another toward the boy, the light of the neighboring building reflected a golden glow. Émile held his breath. He was about to approach the ramp when the musician disappeared again into the shadows. Émile waited a long moment to see if the man would return. Then he heard footsteps behind him in the hall. His father. It was surely his father who came home. Yet it was more discreet than usual. His father would have come in a whirlwind. Panicked, he went inside and tried as softly as possible to close the window and sit back quietly. But the footsteps stopped at their door. Then there was a silence, as if the other remained there. Émile raised the blanket under his nose, pretending to sleep. Then he heard a little noise. Someone was playing with the handle. Paralyzed, the boy opened his eyes, riveted on the door. He realized he was alone in the apartment. The only ray of light came from outside. There was a noise, and Émile heard a sheet of paper slipping under the door. On the other side, the intruder seemed motionless. The boy held his breath. Then he waited for the steps to leave their doorstep and head towards the neighbor's. He heard the neighbor's door open and a few minutes later he heard the usual mumbling of the neighbor. Emile felt an immense relief. It was only their neighbor. He was not alone. Prudently, without making a sound, the child went to the entrance and took the sheet that had been slipped under the door. It was a piece of parchment, folded in half. In the dark, the boy saw poorly. He approached the window. The writing was trembling, unstable and written in red pencil. It read, in simple French: _''I will always be there. Always._ ''

Émile glanced at the crack in the wall. The old man must doubtless have wished to reassure him. He stealthily approached the crack and tried to see into the apartment next door. He saw nothing. Emile, inspired, approached the face of the fissure and whispered, as low as possible :  
"Thank you, sir."

There was no reply

* * *

The carriage had slowly crossed the Lower East Side, hobbling and stopping nearly every moment. Around them was the most populous quarter in the world. Émile remained fascinated by the hard faces that pushed their carts or their goods by, staring at them. He saw a boy of his age, in rags, begging and subtly stealing a loaf of bread. Émile scowled. He was exhausted. A nauseating odor had gradually invaded their apartment and prevented him from sleeping. It had to come from the butcher shop next door, his father had said. The black silk tie and his collar strangled him and his beige wool jacket itch him. His father had forced him to put on his fine clothes. It was he who helped the boy get dressed. Without tenderness. He had tied the cravat too tightly. Émile was missing Victoire so much. Atrociously. He looked for her, through the thousands of faces around them. He had seen several other black people. He seemed to see a woman on the corner of a street that looked like Victoire but the window was too dirty to distinguish her face from so far away. The boy felt a hint of hope and then anxiety. Had she returned to New Orleans as his father said? Was she all right?

The boy lowered his head, clenched the edges of his little top hat which embarrassed him, and took a look at his parents who were silent, each engrossed in their own thoughts. His mother had put on her best dress and her finest furs. His father was in his best suit. It was strange to see him without his top hat. At length the carriage arrived in a little more affluent neighborhood. No doubt a neighborhood where they could have lived. The cab ran along an alley a lane of oaks and stopped at the corner of Broadway. The grumbling voice of the coachman was heard outside:

"Park Theater, sir."

In front of them stood a square building of only a few stories, at the corner of the street, flanked by a more imposing edifice. The portico was triangular and too ornamented. A door-keeper welcomed them and led them into a baroque hall, adorned with hundreds of gold-colored moldings. It was the late afternoon and the next show would not be until eight o'clock. The hall was empty. The clamors of the stage hands and dancers, who were rehearsing one last time, could be heard behind them. A vaudeville institute's production of _Divorçons_. Émile felt an immense relief at hearing his native language at last. The staff scarcely looked at them, too busy in their tasks, as if they were ghosts.

Émile glanced at the enormous modern chandelier that overlooked the theater's hall. They waited at least half an hour before the Abbey butler came to call them. They went up one set of stairs, to the left to the top floor. The red carpet was splendid and the gold moldings ever present. The butler brought them into an immense office which could have their whole apartment. The walls, bordered with mahogany were covered with paintings of all kinds, showing ballerinas and singers in a style that Emile had rarely seen. At the far end of the room, a large mahogany desk had been placed, and behind it, sitting upright, awaited a most ordinary looking corpulent man. He was hardly older than his father. His long, stiff mustache fell over his lips, although he kept smoothing it. He gauged the couple with a skeptical eye, seeming suspicious, and peered for a long moment at the young singer with a thoughtful air. He put his cigar on an already full ashtray and got up from his desk without moving towards them. He courteously gave them a sign to sit in front of him, and his face narrowed in an affable smile, casting a cold glance at the boy. Then, when the couple was seated, he caught up his cigar and drew a long puff, which he waved in front of him. He did not offer one to Emile's father. His face grew dark and he leaned over his desk, hands folded in front of him, staring into the Viscount's eyes. Henry Eugene Abbey had neither the patience nor the time to deal with more interruptions.

"Now, can you explain to me the telegram I received a couple of days ago? And this threat to disclose everything to the newspapers, Monsieur de Chagny?''  
The man threw before them the telegram, as one rejects an excessive bill. Abbey sat down in his seat. The Viscount placed the leather folio containing the contract in front the businessman, supporting his gaze. Abbey, sharply took the briefcase and examined its contents in a heavy silence, squeezing his cigar. He frowned and threw the contract in front of him, in disgust.

"I never signed such a contract, Chagny."  
The Vicomte laid his eyes on the open briefcase, his features hardened, and he pointed to the sheet of paper on the desk. (Join these two paragraphs) "But is this not the signature of your partner, Frederich Strauss?"

Abbey, sighed, impatient, and glanced at the boy. He watched him for a moment, as though he had not seen him? yet, and got up from his desk to pace around the office.

"Yes, it's his signature. But it's a fake, Chagny. A fake. You will understand my reaction when I received this telegram. I almost called the police and had you arrested. But I wanted to see what you had to tell. And I wanted to see Mademoiselle Daaé, although I thought I would meet an imposter.  
Abbey went to a wall behind him where was displayed various photographs. He took a frame and handed it more gently to the Viscount. The photograph, in sepia, had to date from a decade ago. It represented Abbey, younger, much thinner, radiant, with a chisel in his hand, pretending to cut a ribbon in front of his new theater. Next to him, to the left, a hand on the shoulder of the new owner, equally radiant, stood a very tall young man, square face, pale complexion and clear eyes. With a big curly beard and a balding head. Abbey looked for the Viscount's reaction. The frenchman was completely disoriented, looking at the photo with a horrified expression) He stammered one or two questions that remained unintelligible. Christine looked coldly at Abbey, her head straight, her lips pinched. Émile glanced and looked at the photograph and then the businessman, puzzled. Even if the man was younger, in the picture, it was not Mister Strauss.

p dir="ltr"(")I manage my affairs alone and Frederich was not officially my partner yet. He was my wife's brother-in-law and I thought he had great talent for artist management. I sent Frederick to London and Paris in September to find artists, to bring up (increase?) the success of the Metropolitan Opera House. And for this theater, of course. Frederich had to take charge of the management here, if I left for the MET. But the London police found his body in an abandoned building at the beginning of October. He died of a bullet (to) the head. The police say he frequented the gaming tables a little too much and that he would have spent (lost?) everything I had given him. It's bullshit, if you want to know. I inquired about you, Chagny. It would have been your kind. Not Frederich's. Your contract was signed in mid-November, Chagny. There, it is written right there. Want to see Frederich's death certificate?(")

The businessman sighed loudly and sat down like a mass in his chair, looking sullenly at the couple and their child. He rested his cigar, still glowing, in the ashtray and leaned over his desk. The chair squeaked.  
"This telegram, Chagny, you should have sent it to me before coming here to New ! What did you think?" Abbey remained silent for a moment, looking at the picture in front of him and his sad look settled on Christine and he swallowed, gently addressing her with a touch of regret. He suddenly looked aghast and gave her a sad smile.

"You know, Madame, I was there in 1872, at your first performance of Faust, at the Le Pelletier theater. I was on a business trip to Paris. The playbill featured La Carlotta and I was excited to see the Diva that night. Her voice was renowned as a pure technical marvel. And then you appeared on stage. God! I was the first to scream for a refund! But then... You were not a pure technical marvel. You were Art, with a great A and all the emotion that goes with it. I heard the booing roomful when you appeared shut up when you started singing. Your voice seemed to transcend the universe that evening, Mademoiselle Daaé. I do not know how, but you defied human nature. Despite the suicide of the flyman we found hanged backstage. Despite the hysteria of the ballerinas. You made us forget that. There was only your voice. Never again have I felt such a sensation. Never again.

Abbey paused and pulled another puff of his cigar, silent. A veil of smoke invades the room. "I followed your career from a distance. Even from here, in New York. I heard the rumors, you know. Your abduction by the _Phantom_ , on the evening of the burning of the Opera Populaire. Your failed escape to Sweden to flee justice. Your return to Paris. The trial. The unproven guilt of your husband for the murder of his brother. Even those ridiculous stories about the spirit ghost that haunted the cellars of the theater. All of that. I could have done a great vaudeville act with all that. I didn't mind at all. As long as I could still remember hearing you singing beautifully again during that performance of Faust.''

Raoul rose and wanted to and was about to? protest and ask him to be silent, pointing at toward Émile, but Abbey stopped him with an authoritative gesture. Raoul sat down in silence. Émile, hands clenched on his jacket, staring at his father and mother in horror. He remembered Philippe de Chagny's portrait, upstairs. He could still hear his father talking about his rancor towards his brother, there, in the abandoned room. He turned, alarmed, towards the businessman. Abbey cleared his throat, more and more bitter.

"You disappeared from the scene for a year. He pointed at Émile with an indulgent air. "And then you came back. Small, unimportant roles. Because the French bourgeoisie had not yet forgotten, I presume. And then you were given your chance. And you lost it.  
Raoul stood up half-way, his face twitching, his lips curled up and his teeth out, and growled in a low voice, pointing at Christine. Émile saw the pearl of sweat flowing, in the dim-lighting on his father's forehead and wished to take his mother's hand. But she remained petrified and looked straight ahead, behind Abbey as if she saw someone who no one else could see.

"She was pregnant, Abbey. Pregnant. Seven months. Seven fucking months. And they forced her to accept this role. They forced her to hide her pregnancy, they forced her to do these choreographies, they forced her to—''

Did they threaten her with a red-hot iron to accept this role, Chagny? Or were you already too far in debt to let her refuse anything despite her condition? Did they force her to scream out these insanities n stage? Were they the ones who shed all this blood backstage? That made the gossip newspapers of the time. Bloody Marguerite. Even here in New York, you know? And again, I got wind of another article in L'Époque this November. A simple _fait-divers_ , here for those who do not really know the music."

Abbey crossed his hands, elbows on his desk, his eyes pointed at Christine with a distressed look.

"You know that the first performance of the Metropolitan Opera House Company - well ... when it is built, will be _Faust_? The Rockfellers love _Faust_ . I could not have imagined a better singer. But I need a strong vocalist. That's only what Nilsson sings properly. _Faust_. And only _Faust_. And she is less beautiful than you, Mademoiselle Daaé. I see you here sitting at my desk and I see again the nymph who lost consciousness on stage, after giving an unimaginable performance. Your fragile beauty would take away the heart of any man. Even the Devil. But I need someone stronger than you, for this inauguration. The contract with Nilsson is already signed, anyway. I was onlu waiting for your visit to report it to the press."

Abbey got up from his seat, smoothed his green velvet jacket over his large stomach, looked at his watch and gestured in reverence"

"I'm sure the Academy will be interested in your talent, Madame de Chagny. You will probably find a place there, since Nilsson will no longer be there. I hope that you will excuse me for having preceded you, my dear Vicomte, I believe that one or two journalists are waiting for you at the entrance, to listen to your version of the facts. As well as a police inspector, I believe. There is nothing like a good scandal to boost business."

The flash of the cameras had made Christine pale with shame and had captured the frightened expression of the boy. The headlines of the scandal would come. One of the journalists had asked if Gustave was the progeny of the Phantom, since the Vicomte had spent his time in Africa at that time. It had taken little time for Raoul to throw himself, fists and teeth, on the poor guy. The policemen had taken them to the station and had taken their testimony. One of the inspectors had taken the Vicomte aside to question him. Émile saw his father, escorted by two policemen, disappear into a room. His mother remained dignified and upright in front of the policemen who pointed their fingers at her with a sneering gesture.

A young policeman approached them and presented himself and offered the young woman a glass of water. Sergeant O'Reilly was not more than 20 years old, but he already had eyes for Christine. He tried to joke but stumbled into a wall. Émile smiled at him sadly and the policeman smiled back at him. The officer leaned over and told the boy how his family had arrived in New York when he was his age, from Ireland.

He patted the child on the shoulder and gave with a nervous glance at his colleagues. He lowered his voice, a bit uncomfortable.

''Listen, he murmured. For what happened to you, I heard your husband earlier ... that guy who stole all your money ... We ... the police will not be able to do much but ... I know someone who can help you. Riv's is quite good. And for the money ... Rivers won't mind, I think.''

Emile wanted to check in his dictionary but Christine put her hand on the book and gave the policeman a icy glance that the uncomfortable sergeant got up and smiled again and gently put a business card near Christine.

''Your husband will be back soon, It ... should not be long. If you need me, you know where to find me, kid.''

* * *

Raoul returned, with a defeated expression. Abbey had abandoned the charges for extortion and the police had taken theirs for fraud against a Strauss who no longer existed. They had been asked not to leave the city under any pretext. The police were expected to find the man the Chagny(s) were talking about and insisted on the fact that they would keep a eye on Raoul, for Frederich Strauss' murder. Then, released them.

It was supposed to be nine p.m. Night had already fallen and it had begun to snow. The police had called a fcarriage to take them back to Orchard Street, where they were staying. Émile's mother looked nervously out of the window. She kept whispering the same thing:  
"It's _him_ , Raoul. It was _he_ who brought us here. He planned everything. He will take me with him for good this time."  
Raoul remained silent, his wife's hand in his, and glanced at his son. The seizure would come soon. Emile snuggled against the wall of the cab. But Christine remained motionless, constantly repeating the same phrase, as if in a state of shock.

Then suddenly, on Broadway opposite 39th street, Émile's mother stopped the carriage. She exited, in spite of the shouts of her husband. Raoul hurried to catch up and turned to his son with an anguished expression and threatened him with his finger. ")ou're staying right here, Émile. I'm coming back with your mother."

And he left Emile alone in the carriage. His parents' shouts? resounded from the corner of the street. He heard his father call his wife. Many times. "Christine." "Christine." That's all Emile could hear. Then, even the sound of his father's voice was lost in the crowd. The minutes passed. Emile looked out the dirty windows of the carriage but saw nothing. Nothing but passersby. Then, at the end of half an hour, he heard the coachman come down from the cab. The door opened abruptly, and the coachman told him to leave.  
"Get out. I've enough wasted my time. GET OUT or I call the cops!"

He grabbed the boy and forced him to get out by threatening him with his whip. Terrified, the boy looked around, looking for his parents but he did not see them. The shocked passersby stopped for a moment to look at the scene and eventually dispersed. The coachman went up and the cab left, leaving the boy alone at the corner of the street. In front of him stood the enormous construction which was to eventually become a complete quadrilateral structure. The skeleton of the Metropolitan Opera House lay behind a fence. Passersby, impatient to get home, ignored the child and jostled him. Nervously, Émile was walking on the street looking for his parents. On the other side of the street he thought he saw a man who resembled his father quarreling with a woman. It was dark and the snow prevented him from seeing well. He wanted to scream, but as usual no sound came out. He took a rash step to cross, but a passing carriage blocked his passage. Impatient, the child shivered and moved wiggled his toes. He was getting cold and his feet were wet and began to hurt him. He no longer felt his fingers. His throat constricted like never before and he wanted to cry.

Then, in the distance, he heard music. The same violin's music as in the alley of his home. Suprised, the boy took a step and vaguely recognized the lean silhouette, in the shadow of the fences that surrounded the future Opera. He glanced at the couple on the other side of the street and took a deep breath. Discreetly, he approached the palisades. Maybe the beggar would allow him to play with him? Just a few minutes? He approached the silhouette that continued its way, in the shadows, but the beggar did not seem to notice him. He walked, playing, as if in exaltation, and entered the yard through a breach in the fence. Emile lowered his head to enter the yard as well, completely driven by curiosity. Following the beggar, he had wandered too far from the street corner. The site was deserted, covered with fine snow. In front of the boy stood the Opera building, like a gigantic monster. The boy nearly stumbled and his top hat rolled into the snow. He tried to catch it but the hat fell into the foundation. His father was going to be furious. Émile stopped for a moment, hesitating. The violinist continued between the stones and the beams, but Emile had lost sight of the beggar. Then he heard stones collapse and the sound of a fall. He heard a scream. A crash. And blows. Then nothing. He moved forward cautiously, more and more worried. Right beside him, he saw only an enormous abyss filled with debris. The snow creaked under his feet. His fingers, frozen, were beginning to hurt him. Then he felt something crunching under his sole. He lowered his head to look. Under his foot was a pair of golden glasses with round lenses, twisted and broken. He went on. A black form lay in the snow between the screes. The beggar! The boy wanted to run towards him, to help him but stopped short at the sight of the slimy puddle that grew in the snow. Émile only saw a part of the beggar's face but recognized him. Victoire's lover. He stepped back and vomited. A part of man's face had been reduced to a shapeless mass of flesh. The other looked at him with an expression of infinite horror.

É)mile was horrified and was aboutto go back to ask for help when he heard the snow creaking behind him. The boy turned and gave a gasp of surprise. He wanted to speak but only a whisper came out from his throat. The boy stepped back and tripped over the inert body. He tried to get away, slipping on the ice instead. He felt the corpse beneath him and the sticky blood under his fingers. He looked up at the silhouette in front of him, imploring for mercy. But it was too late.

 **End of Act I.**

* * *

 _This chapter has been beta-read by **Mominator 124.** I can't thank them enough for that amazing work._

 _I need your feedbacks. According to you... What is going on? Who is that silhouette?_


	9. Act II Chapter VIII : Rivers

It's not easy, trying to repair a broken door when you have a bleeding nose, let me tell ya' that. I suppose I must have had a horrible face, more than usual, that evening. Whenever Bennett's henchmen came to fetch his money, they never negotiated gently. This time, they got banded together. I guess Bennett did not like that I broke the teeth of one of his guys, the last time. I was still three months late on the rent. I had come out of this with a black eye and a bloody handkerchief and a promise to pay the rent within three days. I needed clients to pay the rent. And good ones, this time.

Those bastards had managed to remove the handle. I was there, trying to fix it with a sliding screwdriver in one hand and a handkerchief in the other, when they arrived. Just like that. The guy had removed his top hat and held his wife by the shoulders. They climbed the steps leading to my office as one enters Tussaud's Museum of Horrors. With that hesitant look waiting for the first excuse to turn right around and leave. It must be said that the building was rather ordinary, even a little shabby. Not the type of building where a well-establish detective would charge you to find the rich lover of your wife. But I managed to do something nice with the office. Before Bennett's thugs came fucking that up. There was glass everywhere. I narrowed my eyes a little, despite the pain in the left one. The guy who had just arrived had a nice coat but it was crumpled. He was a damn handsome man. Tall. Slim. Blond and blue eyes. But _Prince Charming_ seemed to have his little hidden defects. The Lady, on the other hand, was of remarkable beauty. Beautiful clothes, though a few years out of fashion. Her light chestnut curls, though a little disorderly, were mostly hidden under a large hat. She had a very clear complexion, maybe a little too much so. A bit too pale, even for what was supposed to be trendy, a few years back. A very pretty neck. Long and graceful. Like a beautiful swan. Her right glove was stained and a little torn. They both reminded me of something. They moved forward with dignity, as if to hide the dark circles below their eyes and their anguished expressions. They both had bloodshot eyes, but probably for different reasons. The man made slow, jerky and heavy movements as if the mere act of moving was a nightmare and the woman hid her face behind her handkerchief, her shoulders sagging with grief. As soon as she saw me, with my pale face and my half-closed eyes, she uttered a cry and turned away from me. Her husband supported her, stared at me and tried to reassure her. They walked toward me, circumspect. The man took a card out of his pocket and read it in a low voice, twice. He threw a suspicious look at me.

'Mister Rivers?'' He looked at me incredulously, with what I guess was my business card in his hand. "We ... Are we at Matt River's office? We ... we need to speak to him." He seemed more and more suspicious. He looked around him as if he were in a gloomy joke. His voice was tired and hoarse. He had excellent English but the French accent was blatant. I smiled nostalgically. ''Sergeant... Sergeant O'Reilly told us that we could find him at this address," the man said.

Think I must have let out an exasperated sigh.

It was not the first time O'Reilly had referred me to these types of customers. It was not the first time that I had helped him, this little sergeant. He owed me a few cases. This little Irish idiot, freshly promoted in spite of his origins, swore to help the beautiful widow and the orphan. And my god, the Widow he chose, this time! No, they were not the rich customers I was expecting. But by the look they were giving me, we would be out of here in twenty minutes, and I could stow my desk and go have a drink. God I needed a drink, the strongest available.

I smiled as warmly as possible. The woman raised her hand to her face, staring at me. I was used to it, after all this time.

It took me a minute or two to clear the sofa, pick up the scattered papers and toss them in the closet that I used as a bedroom. The couple looked at me in confusion. I would have done the same thing at the time. The room that I was using as an office had been turned upside down. I was going to sort it out later. I lit the kerosene lamp. My office was small but comfortable. Even in the middle of the Lower East Side, I had kept some rich childhood inclinations. I had chosen the furniture carefully. It was not luxurious but it was comfortable, warm and convenient. My father had explained to me dozens and dozens of times the importance of the comforting little things of everyday life, when it came time to approach the dark side of human nature. I bade them to sit on the sofa. The woman, her eyes brimming with horror, were still staring at me. I smoothed my hair, pulled on my suspenders and put on the jacket that I had removed so as to not ruin it. I saw the man give a weird look at my chest but I ignored it, closing my jacket over it. And I placed my hand on my left cheek before sitting behind the massive piece of furniture which served me as an a desk I let her watch, without flinching.

My scar always affected women. I had been given two stab wounds a few years earlier. One to broaden my smile, the other to shut it forever. That suited me. I no longer needed to smile as much anyways. The man insisted, more and more nervous, looking around him, as if the much-awaited hero would eventually enter through the broken door. He spoke to me softly, as one speaks to someone a little fool that one does not want to crumple. Or maybe to a woman who is not in her place. I held his gaze in silence, my hands crossed on the desk. Then, he creased his eyes, with a fold of resigned disgust in the mouth. He seemed to melt into the back of the seat and he took his wife's hand. To comfort himself no doubt. She stared at me, very pale. I thought for a moment that she was going to faint. But she did not. She looked at me with her big gray eyes, widened, without blinking. For a moment, I had the strong impression that I was reminding her of someone. I thought I saw a mixture of hatred and compassion in her foggy eyes. My god she had magnificent eyes. The man finally broke the silence by aggressively pointing to my black eye, the room and the door.

''What the hell is going on, here?''  
While remaining calm, I continued to watch him patiently, without moving, with my working eye. "And may I ask you who you are and what you are doing in my office, sir?"

The man looked at me with surprise to hear that I was speaking French. He remained a little confused, surely trying to define my accent. But he eventually gave up.  
''Raoul de Chagny''he replied. ''And this is my wife Christine. Christine de Chagny.''  
The woman did not say a word. I leaned back in my chair, raising my eyebrows, looking a little worried. There it was. I was thinking back. The former Opera singer, victim of fraud at the Abbey's Park Theater, just before the theater went up in flames, the day before Christmas. A abandoned cigar, according to the newspapers.

I did not know anything about music. And not much about theater. But I had some contacts who had spoken to me about the affair in disreputable terms. It had happened two weeks earlier. A bout of pain made me grimace. I could not help but rub my eyes. These people wanted me to find their money, which had probably disappeared for good more than a month ago. They had not a _cent_ left. To lessen my dismay, I got up and took my cigarette case from library's shelf. I opened it. There were four smokes left. I narrowed my eyes a little and offered them the case. Madame de Chagny had turned her eyes away, and Raoul refused politely, with a weary look. Relieved, I lit one that I yearned for greedily. I sat back and exhaled. I was thirsty. I decided to cut it short.

"I heard of your affair, Monsieur de Chagny. After such a long time it is difficult to prove—''

"My son," he just said. "They took my son away.''

"He looked at his wife's hand for a moment, staring at the golden ring she wore on her finger. He pressed her hand. He took out a picture folded into fours and placed it on my desk, without uttering another word. Nervously, I pulled on my cigarette and unfolded the photograph to take a look. A kid, about 8, maybe 9 years old, wearing his finest clothes, stood obediently, in a classic pose, with what appeared to be a slate in one hand, the other gloved hand resting on the ramp, outside of a European mansion. He had the thin face and the high cheekbones of his mother. And his complexion was almost pale. His hair and eyes looked much darker than those of his parents and he had a cute dimple on his chin. I was familiar with photographs of such serious children. They were often seen in the socialist newspapers that demanded better conditions, for good purpose, in the Lower East Side. The children all had that same apprehensive look, gazing into the lens just a little sideways, with a palpable anxiety not to displease. I gazed at the father and took a deep breath. I offered him the picture, but he waved my hand away and shook his head, looking down.

''You'll need it", he murmured.

I felt more and more discomfort. My throat was dry. The newspapers had not talked of that. It had evoked the debts of the guy and his departure to New York on a whim, but not that. I allowed myself to openly assess the afflicted parents. The guy still had a hangover and was constantly rubbing his right nostril. He looked like someone quick with mood swings and impulsiveness. Although his sullen mood was probably caused by the lack of alcohol, he seemed really worried. His wife seemed absent. She wrung her handkerchief with her right hand, looking straight ahead, as if I no longer existed. She looked exhausted and appeared not to have slept for several days. She seemed to have experienced an important nervous breakdown. They seemed sincerely worried for their offspring. But I could already enumerate a bunch of reasons why their kid was missing. I sighed. It was not going to be pretty. Oh, no. O'Reilly could go fuck himself.

''Kidnaped?" I asked. "What were the circumstances When did he disappear?''  
De Chagny looked uncomfortable. He rubbed his nose for the umpteenth time and sought support from his wife but she did not respond. He kneaded his temples before answering me, muttering:

"We... were arguing on the way back from the police station near Longacre Square. The evening of the twenty-four. We left the cab to spare it to the kid and ... and when we got back ... the cab was no longer there and my son had disappeared. He was gone.''

I wearily leaned my head against my left hand. I could not wait to be done with this bullshit. A kid gone, in dark and turbulent Manhattan, on Christmas eve. I remembered that Dickens was just translated this year, or rather the year before in french. It was already January 10th. Two good weeks had already passed, the evidences were gone. I poorly hid my dismay.  
''What about the police? You went to see them, right?. What do they say ? Have they found the cab driver?''  
The face of the man flushed, contrasting with the blue of his eyes, and his features became black with anger. He stood up from the sofa as if a spring had released and leaned over to my desk. He had so much difficulty articulating, he seemed to be at the point of destroying what was left of my office. Scandalized, he turned his rage towards me.

''They found the cab driver, yes. They say he has nothing to do with it and that it was his right to leave because he had not been paid in advance. He left my son, MY SON, there in the middle of the street. In the middle of the street! They say my son has run away. Can you imagine? An eight-year-old boy. RUN AWAY! He didn't run away!''

He violently threw a piece of paper on the desk. His wife was startled but pierced me with her gaze, more attentive than before. I noticed it was luxurious paper. One of the edges had been torn, as if the page had been taken from a diary. But the writing, hesitant, a sloppy manuscript rather than cursive, written in red ink confirmed what I already knew. " _I will always be there, watching on you_ ". It was like looking at the farewell of a child who is preparing to make a serious mistake. I kept silent, as in the beginning. I, too, would have leaned for the child's runaway. He was not the first of his age to do that. Or maybe a good or bad Samaritan had come and the child had followed him. At his age, if I'd been left in the street like that, I would had followed anyone, especially if I was desperate enough. The guy seemed unaware that in these neighborhoods, childhood did not exist. He slumped, his shoulders fell, and raised his eyes to the ceiling, trying to hide his discouragement. Always standing, he took a few steps and looked at the map of Manhattan that was pinned to the wall. He pointed to a spot with a weary gesture.

''It was at the corner of 39th and Broadway. It was there that the coachman abandoned him," he continued. "It's here. They ... the police found Émile's hat in the yard of the Metropolitan Opera construction site, right in front. We need ... We have to find him.''

I noticed the sinister irony with a nod. I put my cigarette butt into the ashtray and took my notebook, pretended to write down the coachman's name and noted the contact I had with the New York Juvenile Asylum instead. If the child could be found, it would be there. Not elsewhere. Delicately, I tore the sheet and put it discreetly on the edge of the desk. For a minute, I felt guilty. What would it cost me to go for a ride in the north of the city and question Maud and the kids, see if they had seen this child wandering the streets? The police had probably gone to see her but would not have questioned the kids. What would I have to lose? I sighed. That was why O'Reilly was referring me to this type of customer. And that was why Bennett shattered my home and decided that I was prettier with a black eye.

''Émile ... that's it, Émile? He did not speak to you of something that worried him? Perhaps to his mother? Did he tell anything strange? Did you receive a ransom demand, Monsieur de Chagny ... a request for money in exchange for your son? It's been over two weeks already. They must already have contacted you, right? In exchange for an unpaid gambling debt? Do understand me, I—''  
''That has nothing to do with my debts," he shouted, with worry. "Nothing, we have received nothing". Someone wants to hurt us, my wife and me. Don't you understand? Aren't you listening to me? Emile is mute. A mute, eight-year-old little boy! Unable to speak! And he's in danger! They want us dead. Don't you understand? They want us dead! But you don't fucking care...''

He was screaming now. I heard the door of the building open and a woman's step in the corridor. The footsteps stopped for a moment, probably alarmed by the guy's shouting, and hesitantly came up the stairs. For a moment, I truely felt that she was spying on us but I shoke my head. We were fifteen living in this shabby building. Another tenant, that was all. I closed my eyes for a few seconds and felt a twinge in my head. The tenant would complain, I supposed. I had enough trouble with Bennett. I pounded the desk with my fist. He stopped dead and looked at me, surprised. The young woman at his side rose from the sofa and stepped towards me. I remained in my chair, fixing them, in as much empathy as I could muster, with a grim stare for such a mess.

"Listen, Monsieur de Chagny. I'm not here to cheat on you. I read the newspapers like everybody else. It's my job to pay attention to the news. I heard about the fraud, the theft of jewelry ... I heard about what happened to you, all right, not about your kid but ... what happened.''

I took a deep breath. It was going to be disgusting.

"Emile has been gone for two weeks. Two weeks, Monsieur de Chagny, in the middle of New York. The most populous city in the world, right now. Finding witnesses to the incident will take days or even weeks, if there are anyone left who remembers anything. But ... I'm unlikely to find them. The tracks have been erased, since that time. And I also believe that it is a runaway like the police, Monsieur de Chagny. Everything is here. Even the note left. The police will find him. They will eventually find him, one way or another. And we both know the difficulties you face, right now. Hiring a detective will give you more anxiety, disappointments and debt than it will bring back your son. Did O'Reilly tell you about my fees, Monsieur de Chagny? They are fifteen dollars a week. We both know that you can not afford it. We both know that to accept your case would be to defraud you, in the situation you are in right now. You have to understand —"

"What kind of MONSTER are you?"  
Her voice caught me by surprise.

The man turned, as did I to his wife. It was the first time I had heard her voice. I had the impression, for a fraction of a second, that she was behind me. Her voice. Good God, she had one of those voices. Crystalline, both fragile and hard. And proud. The kind of voice that breaks a man's will, just like that. We remained silent, her husband and I. She walked toward me, enveloping me in her big gray eyes. I remained petrified. She continued to move forward, raising her hand towards me.

"It's a monster like you who took my son away. But even thirsty monsters have a human soul. I know it. You are like him. Exactly like him," she murmured.

''Christine, please," the husband replied. "It has nothing to do with it. Not here, For God's sake.''

The man had wanted to stop his wife but it was too late. Looking into her gray eyes, I felt her hand touch my scar. It felt like an electric shock. For a moment, I felt that the room had become cold and that the knife was once more digging into my cheek. I backed up. I think I pushed her away. She fell into the bookcase and I heard a picture frame fall and break. My father's photograph. I closed my eyes. I babbled excuses, like a well educated monkey. I was mad, inside. I wanted them to leave. The man went to his wife, half curled up in a corner of the room. He was ready to attack me. The woman stared at me. I could no longer decipher her expression. The man took his wife by the shoulders and forced her to head for the door. He gave me a murderous look. I returned the same expression back at him, with a wicked smile and handed him the address of the New York Juvenile Asylum.

''Ask for Maud," I said, with a grin. "No need to tell her that it was me who send you to her.''

''Come on Christine. There is nothing to expect from these degenerate creatures. They are no longer human. Let's go.''

I did not even look at them when they left my office. The door made a loud noise and I heard them heading rapidly into the hall, towards the exit. I shouted at them from the top of my voice that I, at least, would not give birth to mute children that I would leave alone in the street. I shouted it, with all the strength I had in my lungs. And I screamed all the same:

''Do not forget, fifteen dollars per week! You will not find any cheaper investigator in town, I guarantee you! It's a pleasure to do business with you, Monsieur and Madame de Chagny!''

The door of the building slammed. Finally I heard the tenant in the corridor climb the stairs and I lowered my head. I was going to bend over to pick up a book when I realized that de Chagny had forgotten the photograph of their son on my desk. My throat tightened. Poor kid. I crossed the small room with a heavy tread and picked up the broken frame which had fallen a little earlier, pulled out the sepia-colored photograph and dusted it free of glass debris. I stood there for a moment, scrutinizing that face I knew by heart. The best father in the world. My father. Taken just six months before his death. Still clad in his judge's gown. Jacques Larivière. Our neighbors in Westmount called him Jack Rivers. Probably because of the shame of having a high official Francophone dignitary. With his big bald forehead, his big nose, his square jaw, his broad greyed sideburns, his slightly almond-shaped eyes, embellished with his deep wrinkles, his little glasses and his patient and kindly smile. I cast another glance at the boy. I thought for a moment that I, too, did not look like my father. I looked more like my damn mother, as Émile did. I lit another cigarette. To hell with the cleaning, I was thirsty.


	10. Chapter IX : The Deal

I needed air. I felt as if I were suffocating. I decided to take the time to walk. Groves Street was a little bit further down the road. I did not care. Walking would do me good. And the dark streets of New York no longer frightened me for years, as I was used of it. I was still at Chrystie Street when I knew they were following me. Heels. After three and a half years of business with Bennett, I knew he would follow me. And by a woman, moreover. I knew the trick. Send a girl monitor to locate the best corner to surround you. I took another step towards the corner of the street and waited. And I jumped at her as if by accident. The Russian sorceress, wrinkled, decaying at that corner welcomed me with seven years of bad luck, I swear. I stammered excuses, in the rudimentary Russian that I knew, trying to pick up her scattered provisions. When I handed her a turnip that had fallen into the sewers, she insulted me more. A black woman stared at us from far away across the street, crossing the street with quick steps, clutching her bag. I felt the blood rising to my cheeks and I left Babouchka there with my seven years of misfortune.

I found the usual address on Groves Street. I thumped the three regular shots and the next four much more slowly. It took a moment. But a pair of suspicious eyes finally opened the peephole. Roz opened the door to detail my face and let me in a little reluctantly, as usual. Compared to the cold outside, the smoky room that awaited me made me feel like withing a womb. I breathed a sigh of relief, in spite of the black glare that Roz placed on me. She quickly resumed her conversation with the girl next to her. A red-haired girl with an naive expression, wearing a simple woolen dress. She had pink complexion and cheeks full of freckles. A newbie. I walked straight to the little bar on the right. On the stage, Lily finished her show, under the rhythmic music of the piano. It was her day off. And yet she was still there, with her beautiful naked breasts, dancing a vaudeville act. I saw her blonde platinum curls twirling in all directions. I sighed and took a stool at the deserted counter, ignoring the cheeky looks of the few regulars who looked at me. Polly was on duty tonight. She looked at the scene with a dreary air, cleaning her glasses. She glanced at me and put her apron back on her huge stomach and felt her black hair, drowned in brilliantine, with boredom and eventually came to see me, as always.

''Hey Matt, Polly said. What a pretty face. What happened to you, again?''

''My landlord finds that I do not pay the rent often enough. And I had some dirty customers. Oh god, if you were there ...''

She frowned and gave a worried expression as she examined my swollen eye. Sure enough, it did not look pretty. I must have looked like a skull, I imagine. She took a clean cloth and plunged it into the icy water. She twisted it with application. She looked at Lily, with her small, perspicacious eyes, placed on her huge face that would have surely shamed the moon and handed the cloth to me. I took it and applied it to my eye, with all the gratitude in the world.

"Serve me something strong, will you Polly?"

She drank a beer glass, without looking at me too much and put it on the pile.

''I'll add it to your credit score then, Matt.''

She went to the chalkboard, on the wall and under my name, erased the $ 2.50 to replace it with a $ 3, well rounded. Some girls stared at me. It was beginning to look like the price of a nice tenement. I shrugged my shoulders, concentrating on the grain of the wood, on the bar. Polly put a cheap bottle of whiskey in front of me with a little glass. I noticed a trace of a finger in it. With what I owe, I did not have much to say. I poured myself a glass and took the time to taste it slowly. The heat filled my throat. I poured another one, savoring each sip. Polly came to lean at the counter, in front of me, with her cloth in her hand, and leaned towards me, lowering her tone.

''This is the last time, Matt, she said. Maggie warned me not to do credit to you you anymore. On that matter, I begin to understand her. And she wants me to tell you that if she still sees you flirting with Lily, she will widen your smile on the other side. She told me to tell you that. These are her words, I swear. I have nothing to do with that. Otherwise, I lose my job. You know. I love you, kiddo, so be careful. You deal with enough shit like that, sweetie.''

She looked at me with a supportive air. I sighed and slipped 10 cents on the counter. That's all I had left. Polly, loyal to herself, returned to her bar. I did not know what that fat Maggie was thinking. Lily and I, it was ancient history. I glanced behind me. Maggie, dressed in a chic evening dress, was there, surrounded by her courtyard. I saw Lily go to join them and pass her arm affectionately around the corpulent shoulders of the boss who passed her arm on Lily's hips. It made me feel a little nauseous. But Lily was a grown up ans she was able to make her own choices. Nobody was paying attention to me. Which was all right with me. I continued sipping my glass for a while, in my solitude. I had been execrable with the Chagny, I knew it. The guilt remained in my throat. I thought of the child, with his terrified look of the picture, lost in the jungle that was New York. I thought of the mother and her words. She had compared me to a monster. And indeed, I felt like a monster at that moment. A monster unable to help anyone. Even myself. I was wondering what I was going to do. I was not able to pay my alcohol bill. Even less Bennett, within 3 days. I had no cigarettes left and I had consciously abandoned a child to his own fate. I poured myself another a drink and glanced at the bottle. I had already swallowed one third in less than an hour. I was lost in my thoughts when someone tapped my shoulder. I turned around to face Roz's hyena grin and her evil look.

''Are you retarded? I've been calling you for three times, now. There's a _monkey_ asking you at the door. Did you give the fucking code to a _monkey_? Have you ever think what would happen if the police came and saw _it_ strolling with us?''

I stared at her for a moment, in utter confusion. A gu y? I was already a bit drunk and I already imagined Roz struggling with a monkey dressed as a ballerina. Then I remembered that Roz was one of the most detestable people I knew and that she had forgotten where she came from. It was the kind to denigrate the blacks, the Italians and especially the Jews by saying that they robbed us of our job when, after all, she was also an Irish immigrant.

''Bah, if she has the code to enter and she seems to know where she is, you let her in. That's the rule. I did your job, so I know. And if the police come here ...''

I glanced quickly at Lily who rubbed herself with a seductive air at her pimp, in front of everyone.

"If the police would land here, it would have sooo many other reasons to arrest us, than black woman who comes here to have a drink. Believe me. And well... Isn't your job, to warn us before the Police blasts in so we can run away by the back door? "

She made an obscene gesture in my direction and spat in the direction of my glass that she missed, fortunately enough.

''You can talk and talk, Matty, Roz said. I do not let this kind of vermin come-''

''Mister Rivers?''

Roz and I turned around at the same time. I heard one or two girls, somewhere, giggle. The young woman had move forwards into the smoky room, as if nothing had happened and ignored the bouncer who had begun to insult her. I blench when I saw her. It was the woman I seemed to have frightened on Chrystie Street. Distress startled me. What was she doing here? She must have followed me for a while and seized the code. Had I let in someone who would call the police for indecent morals? She move forwards us with a smile. As if it were a simple tavern. As if she did not see what was going on all around her. I was both mortified and intrigued. I had to admit that at first glance she attracted me already. She was very pretty. His dress of pearl-gray taffeta seemed new and without being extravagant, fittd her very well. She was extraordinary calm. I was blushing.

Roz wanted Maggie to throw the intruder out but with an authoritative gesture, the boss returned her to the door and gave me a murderous look in terms of warning while Lily who had just noticed my presence. She looked with an horrified look, pointing her eye. I nodded to her, raising my shoulders. I'd settle that with her later. I returned to the pretty stranger. She watched the chalkboard carefully and smiled. Politely, she asked the barmaid if she could have a clean glass. She put $ 3.50 on the counter. Polly, surprised, glared at me. With hesitation, she put another glass in front of the young woman. She thanked her warmly and then stood beside me, waving her glass, with a friendly smile.

"Will you allow me to drink with you? She asked softly"

Polly and I looked at each other, completely surprised. It was not Bennett who was sending this girl. With a confused gesture, I invited her to sit on the free stool next to me and fill her glass. She lifted her skirt a little and sat elegantly, smiling warmly at me. She held out her hand at me.

''Victoire Saint-Louis.''

Taking her delicate hand, I noticed at once that her palms were a bit rough and that she was wearing a wedding ring on her finger. I think my heart sank a bit, at that moment. But it was not out of ordinary here. Far from there.

"You already know my name, I think."

She nodded and carried the glass to her lips and drank its contents in one go. She made a pout and leaned towards me, muttering, with an embarrassed air.

''I'm so sorry... Do you prefer to be called Sir or ... Miss?''

The question took my breath away. I opened my mouth and closed it again, like a fool. I didn't know what to say. Of course, it was enough to wear pants and short hair to be taken for a man. People didn't look. Nobody had time to look, in New York. And that was perfect, for me. I was taller than some men and my scar on the cheek made me look like a badass so no one ever noticed. Well... almost. And I did not want to be noticed and I was doing everything to keep it that way. But I was born with the body I had and even if being a man would have been one of my wildest dreams, we were still here, sitting in this bar where everyone was aware that I was like the other girls.

''Just call me Rivers. It will be easier.''

She nodded in approval and knocked her glass against mine. She took out her bag and pulled out a thick envelope of brown paper, which she placed on the counter.

''All right Rivers. Nice to meet you.''

She smiled and discreetly pushed the envelope toward me with a half-sorry air.

"I have come here to express our apologies for this past evening"

I frowned. I saw already the end of the dialogue, the eviction notice and the threats of Bennett, in this envelope. I was confused. This girl had just paid my credit note and apologized for what was going to happen.

''Excuses ?''

I took the envelope, unfastened it and lowered my head to discreetly ogle its contents. I retained myself to shout out of surprise loudly, and stared at Victoire with a completely stunned air, my mouth wide open. She beckoned me to be more discreet and, still bent, explained, as low as possible.

''Yes, an apology. And to hire you on a official basis. There's $ 150 in this envelope. You can count it, if you want. I think it's two and a half months of work, is that it?''

I said something inaudible. Something about my transaction's ways. That she owed me only half, to begin with and that we had to sign a contract. Something about coming to see me at my office tomorrow, when I will be sober and my swollen eye would be less painful. 150 bucks! But it was a fortune! What she was looking for it? I gave her a skeptical look and examined her attentively. True, there were black prosperous people in New York for at least 20 years, but she did not look immensely rich either. Her engagement ring was too simple. Her hat was cheap and the sole of her shoes was full of New York snowy mud. She had followed me on foot. But God, who was this girl? What was she getting at?

She continued with a much more serious tone, indifferent about my feelings. The change of conversation towards French put my senses on alert.

"So you'll have enough to, at least, find out who kidnapped my mistress's son, you think?" Or at least to know what happened?''

The stupefaction of the envelope content gave place to the utmost incomprehension. The young woman did not flinch at my reaction. A servant. The Chagny had sent me their servant, there, in my best-kept den. By putting at risk the girls who came to liberate themselves, for a few hours from the society that wanted them obedient or dead. Now, intruders knew the address. And it was my fault. How could these people afford a servant? It was said that the Viscount didn't had a penny, that they were staying in the Lower East Side and that his wife had to work. And what else? I put the envelope back on the counter, repressing the urge to check if the money was not fake and looked at the young woman with a serious grin.

''Look, Victoire. I think I explained the situation to Monsieur and Madame de Chagny. I ... It's not even a question of fees any more. I do not know or you have found such money but I am not a thief. If the kid is not at the NYJA ...''

The rest broke my heart but it was necessary to be straight forwards and as quickly as possible before the situation was getting worse. I took a deep breath and spoke as softly as possible.

"If he's not at the NYJA, I ... I do not really have any hope for him, Victoire. At best, he is somewhere in the streets or in a scabrous basement to prostitute himself. You know. It will last a while and then, if it does not die physically, he will not be the same anymore and he will not make old bones, believe me. At worst, he is no longer of this world. You imagine all the hope your mistress has given herself? I prefer to tell you right away. She's unlikely to find her son alive. "

She retained a spectacular calm. She even smiled at me. Sadly. I saw her eyes teared out and her lower lip shaking. And even there, she looked at me patiently, imploring me with gentleness. She loved this child. Even if it was not hers. She put her hand on mine and squeezed it. Her hand was a little rough but warm and firm. I felt a warmth in my chest that I had not felt for a long time.

''I understand Rivers. Do not worry, I understand. I know what you mean. Madame sold all her remaining jewels. Monsieur de Chagny does not know. He does not even know that Madame is still communicating with me. Émile is a sensitive, insightful and wise little boy. Very wise. He would never have done anything to displease his mother. Never. He loves her. It's not a fugue, all right? I know that. Just ... just do your best. That's all. We only want answers, all right? To Know what happened that night. We... we want to have a conclusion ... you ... you understand? To not know ... it's worse than anything. Please ell me you understand, Rivers. Please tell me that.''

I nodded silently. I was fascinated by the hand that always clasped on mine. Fascinated by the contrast between the warmth of this woman and the chilly beauty of Christine de Chagny in my office. Still, I understood better the strange reaction of the mother. Everything made sense.

I looked, helpless, around me, not knowing what to say. Behind me, the girls were having fun. The pianist had started a sort of waltz from a vaudeville on Broadway and some parodied the dance steps in a gleam that contrasted with the darkness of our conversation. Nobody looked at us. Except perhaps Roz, at the entrance. But I did not care. I turned to the young woman. She was waiting for an answer. I sighed heavily. I was going to regret it. I knew.

''OK. I... I take the case.''

* * *

 _A/N : So, dear readers... What do you think of Rivers? How do you like them?_


	11. Chapter X : Nights at the Circus

_I suggest strongly to listen to **Bel Canto - Dewy Fields** while reading this chapter!_

* * *

I escorted Victoire into a fiacre as far as Hester Street, where she showed me the unpretentious building where she occupied a small boarding-room. I was too afraid that Roz would start following her. I knew enough the bouncer to know she would tried to get her little revenge. We went down and paid. Like the gentleman I should have been, I took her back to the staircase of her building. A fine snow had begun to fall again. I had passed the short trip to meditate about the case. There were large gray areas in this whole story, I knew that. I found it a little strange that she did not live with her employers and that Madame de Chagny was acting on her husband's back, but I kept these questions for myself. I met the guy. He would have been able to go out and drink all that money. Oh, not that he did not care about his offspring. No, that was not it. A small part, deep inside him, surely wanted the well-being of his family. But this guy was constantly running away. You could easily sense it. This thoughtless journey to New York, heads down towards a vague prestige illusion, was a flight. All his life was a flight.

What was this guy running way from? And Madame de Chagny seemed scarcely better. But I had seen many women in her condition, when a child was lost. The monsters, as she said, must have seemed to arise from everywhere, at this moment. Even in the handsome face of her husband. The voice of Victoire pulled me back from my thoughts.

''What are you thinking about?, she said, softly''

''To the meager tracks I have.'' I sighed. '' Actually ... I do not have any. Why should Monsieur de Chagny not know that you are still communicating with Madame? Were you there when the boy had disappeared?''

She stood silent for a moment to watch the snow fall, then she turned towards me, looking straight into my eyes.

"Monsieur de Chagny dismissed me when we arrived in New York. He said that he no longer had the means to afford my services. I had to go back to Louisiana where I had family. But I stayed, I found work and I contacted Madame for news of Émile. Because I love this child with all my heart. And no, I was not there. Otherwise, none of this would have happened.''

There you go. I stepped back a step closer to observing her. It was not unusual for a servant to avenge their dismissal on the children of their masters and supposedly to rescue them to resume their place. Certainly, Victoire seemed frank and seemed to really hold on to that kid. But this was not to be neglected. In the disappearance of a child, nothing could be forgotten.

She seemed to detect my thoughts, but said nothing. She shivered. She had to know that if it was indeed a kidnapping, she would be the first suspect and that the color of her skin would make her the first culprit, if we found the child's body. I would not have wanted to be in her place. I was wondering if she was sorry, at the moment, not to be with her family, far from these problems. I handed her my jacket. She had a moment of hesitation, a little surprised, and turned her back to me to put the jacket on her shoulders. It made me smile.

"And what do you think has happened, I said. You must know your employers, right?''

She turned towards me, with a serious face. I saw even a deep, vibrant anger in her black eyes. She was ready to shred the whole world, to find this kid.

''It's that damn Strauss who took the child away. I saw how he looked at Emile. I saw his ways of acting with him. His way of trying to get closer and closer to him. I saw the candies he gave him. You have to be completely disconnected from reality to not see behind the mask of this kind of monster. He even tried to take him all by himself, when we landed from Ellis Island! But de Chagny did not care! He did not want to offend his 'partner'. All that mattered to him was the money! This fool fully deserves what happens to him, if you want my opinion!''

I remained speechless, shaken by the anger of the servant. For a moment, I felt bad to suspect her. The more I looked at her, the more I lost my judgment. But I could not help it. Her lips closed and the nostrils of her pretty nose dilated, trying to contain her emotion. I hated myself to make her pass through this. I hated myself to ask such disgusting questions. But if we wanted answers, we had to go on.

"Does Monsieur de Chagny have any enemies capable of taking away their son to recover their money?" He told me he had not asked for a ransom ... Would he have been able to exchange the kid to Strauss for the repayment of a debt, you think? What relationship did Chagny have with the kid?

"He owes money to everyone in Paris, she said. In Africa, surely too. But not here. Not yet.''

She had a brief moment of silence. She squeezed the jacket against her, her head drooping, dreamy.

"I do not know if he would have been able to do such a thing, she replied. I do not know at all. Monsieur de Chagny is a shabby one. But I do not know if he could have done that. Not to his wife. He loves his wife. They argue all the time. But he adores her, he venerates her. He'd do anything for her. But his son ... I have been at their service 4 years and I have rarely seen him give some sign of affection to the kid. Chagny was persuaded that Émile was daft because he couldn't speak and he was ashamed of him. He hit the kid once or twice, in angered outbursts. But Émile was not an idiot. With me, he was talking. It was necessary to be patient and to gently insist but he talked. I have never seen such a curious and intelligent child. And my god, that imagination he had! He did not talk often and he was shy, that's all. "

She paused for a moment, shrugging her shoulders and she went on.

"You must be blind not to see that Emile is not from Raoul, she said."

It was my turn to nod. I remembered the picture, which was still on my desk. I had noticed that, yes.

"Nothing else comes to mind, Victoire?"

She shook her head and looked down. She asked me, with a hoarse voice.

"They found his top hat in the Opera shipyard. Madam told me. You think they've found something else?

''I do not know. But I can check that, I replied.''

She nodded and began to climb the stairs, without a word. I imagined it had to be difficult for her right now and that she wanted to be alone. I rubbed my cheek and felt the swelling of my scar. I was about to lit a cigarette and resume my journey when a thought crossed my mind.

''Victoire?''

She turned to and stopped in front of the door, her hand on the handle.

"Madame de Chagny said that Emile had been kidnapped by a monster like myself." You know who she was talking to?

Victoire looked at me, a little confused, surprised at the question. She replied, a bit exasperated.

"But she was talking about Strauss, of course! Who else? And you are not a monster like him, to what I know!''

I remained silent, resting my gaze on her. She raised her eyes in the air, with the same exasperated expression as a child wakes us up because an ogre was under their bed.

"Madame de Chagny comes from a superstitious family. With a unimaginable bag of folklore. I think she's from Finland, or ... a location like that, I do not know ... She's an artist. With the same sensitivity and imagination as her 8-year-old son. She speaks constantly in riddles like this.''

"Are you sure?" I really felt like I was reminded of someone. Someone close, you know.''

She sighed tiredly and she lingered on my face for a moment, as if she had not seen it before. She laughed amusedly and with a tired smile full of compassion.

''There was this thing, a few years ago. I only heard rumors more wacky than the others. I'm just telling you what I was told. The theater in which she was performing that evening was razed by a fire. It was a mess. There were several deaths, from what I understood, even from the spectators. All the basement workers were trapped. I imagine that in trying to escape the flames, she lost herself in the machinists stage and that she had gotten lower and lower in the cellars without realizing it. The neighbors told me that the Vicomte and the Police did not find her until two days later, in the depths of the Catacombs of the Commune. I dare not think of the scare she must have had in the dark surrounded by all these skeletons. The newspapers made sensations based on a legend circulating in the theater to say that the Phantom of the Opera had taken her away. And this bullshit had followed the couple ever since.

She paused, with a weary smile.

"It's true that tonight you really look like a dead man, Rivers, she said." We must excuse Madame, she is always like that. But do not worry about it. It's not a ghost who have kidnap Émile. If this _ghost_ really existed, he would surely have died nine years ago.

* * *

''So, if I understand correctly, you accepted the case because of _that_ girl?'' Lily said.

I raised the head of the couch, sleepy and a little lost and I looked around me. No, I was no longer in those cold catacombs buried under the snow and nobody was chasing me with a knife. The warmth that reigned in Lily's box was comforting. Her lumpy couch just as much. I heard the crackling of the hearth at the bottom of the little room and the splashing of the water from the old bath nearby. In the distance, I could hear the regulars of the theater start pouring in, gently, for a first drink. I closed my eyes and huddled up against my waistcoat which served as a pillow. I had not slept the night before and my stomach ache. Not to mention migraine. My office was a mess which anyone could enter at any time and I had too much in mind.

I had not been lost my time. I got up early and went in a fiacre to the north of the city, to the New York Juvenile Asylum. Maud, a fifty-year-old rounded irish woman, had greeted me with a resignation sigh. She loved me ... In her own way. After all, it was her who had took care of me, eight years ago. And it was I who had snatched a fourteen years old boy named Ferguson O'Reilly from the clutches of prostitution, two years later. She had put herself in mind, I do not know why, to get me back on the right path. She took my arm by patting it, as we walked along the long corridors of the dormitories. What was I doing next Sunday afternoon? She asked. The St. Patrick Catholic Church organized a charity. I would be more than welcome. The charity attracted many good Irish men. Was I not of French-Canadian, therefore, Catholic, after all? And with a pale complexion like mine and with my dark hair, a burgundy dress would fit me perfectly. She knew where to find one. That she was worried about the impression of "femininity" that I was going to give to her boys and the consequences that this could engender in their minds. And every time, I was so pleased to bring up my astonishment to see her, such a good catholic, work in a purely protestant establishment. That shut her off every time.

I may have arrived a little too early. In the refectory, the boys looked at me mournfully over their thin porridge bowl. Emile was not there, of course. Otherwise, the story would stop there, I guess . By dint of distributing a few pennies and to give the descriptions given by Victoire, I learned that some boys knew by far the man who called himself Frederich Strauss. The older boys told me what I feared. Let him not come near to you, even if he gave you money, sweets, or something to eat. Because the boys who were going with him never really came back, if I knew what they meant. That we had seen him once or twice on Mulberry Street talking in language that looked like italian. And then a six-year-old boy pulled me by the sleeve and asked me for ten cents for what he was going to say. He had seen Émile on the evening of the 23rd of December. He saw Émile He followed an hobo who played on a violin on Broadway, near the 39th. He told me that the hobo was not really one, but could not tell me why. Just an impression the boy had. It costed me five other cents for nothing.

My researchs on Mulberry Street had been futile. No one had seen a giant skeleton with a twisted nose. Mister Strauss remained a mystery. I told Lily about it. Then I fell asleep on her couch.

A squirt of hot water in my back snatched me from the half-sleep in which I had fell softly. I yelled a bunch of angry french-canadian curses, I think. Lily chuckled. She took a sip of wine directly from the bottle and handed it to me with a mischievous air.

\- You think she's prettier than me, she said is that it?

I half turned my head towards her, pouting. I did not intend to answer this type of question and she knew it very well. She was there, naked, in her bath, a mask of clay on her face, her blouses wrapped in curlers, shaving her legs. Her next performance was only two and a half hours away. She had all the time in the world. If Maggie could see us right now! Lily winked at me and concentrated on her dreadful task. I glanced at Lily's back. From here and there, the scars of cigarette butts appeared, impossible to hide.

We had connected, Lily and I, 4 years ago. She was barely 20 years old at the time. She had fled from a frightful marriage. A beautiful guy, met in a fair, in her small and severe North Carolina's little hometown. An acrobat. She was barely 15 or 16 years old. She had fallen madly in love with him, had married him and had followed him. From circuses to fairgrounds, all over the United States, where the guy lost jobs after jobs. Then he had been jealous because Lily was too pretty. It was like a game for him to hear her shouting that she remained faithful, while her skin was burning under the cigarette. But she had stayed. A little too long, hence the scars in her back. Then she had came here, in New York. She had found a job in an obscure theater on 8th Avenue, corner of the 44th, where she was performing erotic dance roles. Our love story had lasted a bit, the time to heal a little and ended in such a weird happy ending, for people who a had a twisted life like us. Lily needed someone strong, stable, to feel protected. And I needed less frivolity and more depth of mind. That's all.

''So you took the case just because of her, she said. I just recognize you just there. You know that you moaned her name twice in a row and talked about her beautiful neck just now while you were sleeping?

"Yeah right.''

My reply did not prevent me from blushing and covering my face with my waistcoat. Another chuckle of laughter fllowed my reaction. Her right leg, long and slender, appeared outside the bath, finally smooth as silk.

''She's married, she said, you know?''

I turned on the couch to face her.

''You were married as well, that didn't stopped us to have some fun.''

She looked at me with a steady look and a sarcastic air.

''We're all married, but I'm a widow now. Some don't have such a luck, _Mathiiiilde_.''

She mimed a dramatic air. I did not answer. She pronounced my old name _à la française_. Every time, I did not know if I had to laugh or cry. I was used to a more coarse pronunciation of this dead name. But I hated it when she was using it, she knew it. I curled up on the couch and tried to concentrate on my business. A italian guy, lean like a corpse, tall as a giant with bald head, thin mustache and a broken nose. She sighed, annoyed. She got out of the bath, took a towel and removed her mask. She was not really paying anymore attention to me. Completely naked, she went behind her screen.

''Do you really like _her_ , she asked''

I sighed. I could hardly imagine such a woman liking me. She was educated and beautiful as an angel.

''You know, Lily continued, if your _girlfriend_ is looking for a job, Barry would gladly hire her. He says it will be a very decent show, I assure you. Like the ones on Broadway. He's not scared of the scandal, he just wants talented girls and she truely is, apparently. It does not pay tons, but she would be a star here. I said to Barry this afternoon, while you were sleeping, that I would talk to you about that.''

I raised the head of the couch, puzzled, frowning.

\- But what are you talking about?

Her head, still full of curlers, appeared on the other side of the screen and looked at me with astonishment. I swore she was infinitely relieved.

''Ooooooh. _That_ girl. Is _that_ the girl who made you search for that italiano guy? Well ... I do not know your tastes well, Matt. I didn't know you'd like darker girls. How do you say she described the guy?

I dully described her Frederich Strauss, for a second time. Then she went out of her screen, surrounded by a simple towel and sat in front of her dressing table. She remained pensive for a long time, while she was releasing one or one of her blonde curls and she was putting her make-up, in front of the mirror.

''There's a tons of guys like she described, in fairgrounds and circuses, she told me. They get hired there to be near the kids. But I swear to you, as soon as they get caught, they regret to even being born and their career is finished everywhere. Your guy looks like a monster. I can not even understand how he did to fool everyone.''

''What amazes me is that no one noticed this guy. With his height ...''

But Lily was no longer listening. She had gone back behind the screen and was fastening on her corset. I had to help her tie it up. Every time I felt like I was suffocating for her. And then, dressed in turquoise silk, black lace and white feathers, she strutted before me like a peacock, turning on herself. Her cleavage did not hide much and her skirt was so short ... I wondered what ideas she could have engendered in the minds of the men sitting at the bar, downstairs, on what women were supposed to be, all of a sudden. I burst out laughing as I saw her huge stiletto heels, black and shiny, which made herlook like a grasshopper. The shoes were making her at least 6 inches taller.

"But how do you dance with such stilts?" I said.

She giggled, like a little girl, then suddenly stopped, her face a little disgusted, as if a crooked memory had just knocked at the door of her drunk and foggy mind.

''Wait, she whispered ... Say that again?''

* * *

The grumbling concierge made me come in, in spite of the more or less late hour. Without even looking at me. It must have been nine o'clock or so, maybe later. Even from the ground floor, I heard the discordant notes of a piano on which one takes revenge to make their point. When I reached the first floor, I heard bridles of conversation. A desperate man's supplications and his jaded wife's answers. I was relieved. Everything worked as I planned.

Signs had been drawn in Hebrew on the door of the neighbor apartment. I quickly noticed, even in the darkness of the corridor, that the door had been forced. I shrugged and struck three large blows in the door of the apartment next door. The piano ceased. There was a moment of silence and the door opened. Christine appeared in the embrasure, wrapped in a shawl of white wool, dressed in a nightgown. Her golden brown curls fell freely on her shoulders and hid her long neck. Her beautiful neck was fascinating me too much. Her fragility left me panting for a few seconds. I was about to speak when she interrupted me with a discreet sign.

''I knew you'd come back, darling.''

I stared at her in silence and did not dare to answer. I thought of what Victoire had told me about her strange way of talking. Christine smiled sadly and opened the door. I entered in a sullen apartment, almost abandoned. The cups and plates filled with scarcely touched food stacked up on a corner of the table in the back of the room. Alcohol bottles stacked on the coffee table, next to a sofa lost under the dirty linen. I was just entering into the apartment when Raoul de Chagny jumped on me, putting himself between me and his wife like a wounded animal protecting all that remained to him.

''But what is this fucking _dyke_ doing here, he shouted"

I remained silent for a moment, looking at him for what he was. A man who had lost everything. With his messy hair and a face not shaved for days, dressed in a simple, crumpled shirt and black wool trousers, he was standing there in front of me. His belt poorly loose around his waist. This guy had not been out of his house for days except to go drinking at the bar next door. He looked exhausted but he was still sober. I arrived just in time. I articulated, syllable by syllable.

''Joe Mazzola''

He was about to shout again when my answer stopped him, with a blow. I repeated, slowly, with as little expression as possible.

\- Your Frederich Strauss. His real name is Giuseppe Mazzola. Or Joe, if you prefer.

Finding Strauss had not been easy. Lily had met him at a fair in Pennsylvania four or five years ago. She told me the guy was extremely charming. Then, later, she had been told what was going on with him. And she gave me his name. His real name.

Mazzola had been some kind of acrobat or clown. I'm not exactly sure. He excelled in walking with stilts. To such an extent that one would have sworn that he was born with it. In fact, he had a very ordinary height but stilts made him look like a giant. Not to mention the disguises he had access to. He had a rather ungrateful physique, arms too long for his waist, a body a little thinner than usual. But he had a real talent for getting what he wanted from people. He could have sold the North Pole to an Inuit, as we used to say, where I came from. He was adored in his troop. He had quite good skills in photography. Until someone caught him with a boy. I don't know the details, but it was quite bad, Lily told me. He had been dragged to a deserted place and beatten until all possible bones, including the nose was broken, and left for dead on a beach. He had never reinstated any another troop. But the Irish had spotted his little talents. He freely exercised his little fraud, accompanied by his little accomplices, both in New York and in Europe. He was quite good at it. His favorite thing was to get as much information as possible on his victims and than make sure they were gone for a few hours. Then, one of his accomplice would enter the house and make such a mess that the victims were afraid to stay there any longer. It was then easy for Mazzola to pay them a kind visit and offer them beautiful dreams and to rip them from their properties. The same thing happened to an old widow in New York. As long as he brought back the money demanded by the Irish, nobody minded. That's it.

You know, we can not be a private, in New York without having some contacts. I got mine, all right? And I will not name them here. Maggie's dirty little jobs, eight years ago, when I arrived in New York, freshly landed from Montreal, had given me a little bit of work and some affinities, my legal and police knowledge helping. They did not care if I was a girl or a guy. I was useful. Very useful. So, when I asked for Mazzola, they were at first a bit reluctant to give me information. Mazzola was a protected guy, you know. But in spite of the amount of money he brought back, by dint of scams of all kinds, his little manias were disturbing. Even for wackos like the Irish. Sometimes a little too much. And he had recently begun to frequent a few boastful guys, who came from Sicily, from where he came himself. The Irish had not really like that, again. What do they care from a French couple kid, lost in New York? So I was given the address of the hen which Mazzola used to hide and do his dirty little things. A dingy basement on Mulberry Street. They did not mind my little _dyke_ business. As long as I did not interfere in the _real_ business. As long as I left the money where it was and as long I did not kill the guy. For the rest, nobody cared. I could do anything I wanted.

Raoul remained a moment staring at me, at once disgusted and bewildered, and I stoically returned his gaze. He finally let go and lowered his head, completely humiliated and whispered in a low voice.

"I have no money to give you, Miss Rivers, he said, you know it very well. Why did you do that?''

I avoided looking at Christine and I pouted, highlighting my scar, with maybe too much irony

"Don't ever call me Miss again. Ever. Even monsters and degenerate creatures as myself sometimes have a human soul, _Monsieur_ de Chagny.''

I pointed his crumbled shirt and his open trousers with a self-explain look.

"Go shave and dress yourself, will ya'?" We are going to pay a visit to Mister Strauss.

* * *

 _A / N: Lily and this chapter is inspired by Angela Carter's Nights at the Circus. A beautiful book that I highly recommend._


	12. Chapter XI : The Red Death

_A/N : **Disclaimer :** This chapter is one of the most creepiest and gloomy of the story. It contains extremely rough themes such as child abuse and graphic violence. I've tried to suggest things more than describing them. But... It is NOT recommended for people below 16 years old. I'll make a short resume in next chapter for readers who want to skip. If you ever feel that something is too disturbing in that chapter, please PM me. I'm all open to my readers suggestions._

* * *

 _I_ _suggest listening to_ ** _Austra - Future Politics_** _while reading this chapter._

* * *

My plan was quite simple. Maybe too much. Putting Chagny and the real Strauss, face to face. One could deny indefinitely, pretend to oneself that they had made the best choice ever, but in front of these situations, I knew it was hard to keep up apparences. Even the tough ones would lose it. If they were not called Driscoll or Lyons, they would eventually break. And if Lily had said the half of the truth, without inventing too much, even Driscoll would have cried for his mother.

And, after all, All I wanted was an answer.

The Vicomte closed the door of the room behind him, and I heard the drawers squeak. Then I heard some water swash. Christine had returned on the piano and played a quiet air, without paying any attention to me. I was uncomfortable. I would have liked to apologize to her for having pushed her and initially refused the case. Thank her, reassure her perhaps, on the well-being of her kid or whatever to make her feel better, but I could not. Not with her husband next door. I nervously turned around the room. Someone had smashed the wall of the living room, just above the piano. I frowned. The wall overlooked the apartment next door, whose door had been forced. I noticed children's clothes, folded in a corner, a few books and a chalkboard. I instinctively crossed the room to pick it up. The same that Emile held in the photo, probably. The edge of the wood had been repeatedly crushed. On top of what had to be a half-erased dictation, one had scribbled in haste a beginning of partition. Then below, a simple sentence.

 _The man with the violin follow us._

I frowned. I followed with my finger the traces of the chalk, thinking. I noticed that the applied handwriting, although a little childish, that I saw on the chalkboard had nothing to do with the trembling and defaced writing of the note that the Chagny had shown me. I wondered if they had noticed what was written on this chalkboard.

I put down the slate where I took it. I noticed an old English dictionary. I was going to leaf through it when I felt the gaze of Christine de Chagny burning my neck.

"Do you have any children, _Mademoiselle_ Rivers?"

The question gave me the same feeling of a punch in the stomach. I felt, once more, the stirrups of steel open my lower abdomen. I think I curl up in two, for a moment. I turned, perhaps a little too pale and gave her a smile, pointing to my scar, in a joking tone. And I totally failed.

\- Oh God, no! You imagine? Poor brats...

She smiled at me, with the same sad look.

\- My husband had to explain, I mean, about you. I only saw one man. A desesperate man. A disfigured monster, with no heart left. He explained what you were. He told me how hard your life was, you know? I would never have guessed. You could have been a handsome man. Without this scar. I find you courageous. Or maybe not. I do not know anymore. You live the life you have to live. But... I feel... I feel that we have a lot in common. It's silly, I'm sorry. You know, at the Opera, I had to play travestite roles. I was told I was a handsome lad. But you're ... different. I do not imagine you a mother, no ... I did not imagine myself as a mother either.

Sitting on the piano bench, she seemed about to break. Her big gray eyes fell into space for a moment.

\- No one prepares you to be a mother. No one. And then it happens. Just...like that. Whether you like it or not. And you can not do anything about it. Nothing. I'll pray every day for him, at St. Patrick Cathedral, you know? I want him be with the angels, in heavens. I only want to know that my son is with the angels. Not in the dark. Not with him. Especially not alone with him.

I slowly dropped the dictionary in its place, keeping my eyes on the young woman.

\- With him ?

She gave me a smile and wrapped her hands around her body, as frail as a child's. She laughed strangely and bowed her head.

"I did not return as I had promised, she said. He begged me. He warned me that he would always be there. That he would watch me in the shadows until my last breath, until my last note. I did not listen to him. I fled. I turned the grasshopper and fled. And now my son is with him, in the darkness, waiting for me to join them.

I remained silent for a moment. I thought again and again of what the servant had told me. But the woman's distress was palpable. She was terrified. Affected, I stepped forward to comfort her. Raoul's sight, behind me, stopped me.

I turned round. Chagny had put on a waistcoat and a black silk tie. He had shaved his mustache and his chin. His blond curls, slightly sparse on the front fell on his beautiful skinny face. His blue eyes looked at me with an air of desperate challenge. I thought he looked like a child now. A child who had been dumped with too many arbitrary responsibilities on his shoulders and had grown old. I noticed the revolver on his belt. I wondered where he was doing with it. It made me a little scared. But I did not say a word. I put on my gloves, tied up my coat and slipped my bowler hat over my skull. He leaned softly over the piano to kiss his wife tenderly. She moved her beautiful face away, turning her head.

* * *

We left the apartment around 10pm. I accosted de Chagny, pointing the broken door of the apartment 5. He shrugged his shoulders drearily.

\- An old schnock, if you want to know. He was found dead suffocated almost two weeks ago. The concierge had lost the fucking keys.

The end of December and the beginning of January had been particularly cold, even for a place like New York. We had icy rain the night before and the streets were almost as dangerous as the cut-throats with which they filled. Despite the ice on the pavements, I decided to walk on Mulberry Street. It was more discreet and it was not very far. I did not want to leave too much traces. We made our way to Canal Street and passed it. The streets, with this waether, were deserted. The corner was faded. I saw an Asian in the distance pushing a merchandise cart. Closer to the place, a girl walk the streets and threw us, from time to time, seductive looks. The evening had to be very long, for her. I stopped the Vicomte with my hand and pointed to the dark, decrepit building, further on Mulberry Street, a little way off.

\- Here we are.

I held out my hand, palm open, with an bossy gesture towards his weapon. He looked at me with astonishment and tried to protest, baffling. I did not move, my hand still open. The other, hidden in the pocket of my coat, was clenched on the American punch that I always dragged along with me. I did not want to play games. Especially not with the Whyos. He gave me his gun in a slow, reluctant gesture. I examined the gun. American manufacturing. It was not new, far from it. He had to find it on the black market. No doubt, he had received threats, well... real or imaginary ones. I could not see the guy trying to rob a bank. I opened the barrel with a skilled hand and glanced at it. There were four bullets left. Looking at the gun, as if I were examining a new toy, I asked him, in the tone of a mere conversation.

"Tell me, Raoul, why did you bring this gun with you?

His eyes widened with surprise and he stared at the pistol and me. Then he clenched his teeth, piercing me with his gaze.

"I'm going to kill him for what he did to my family and me. I'm going to find the evidence that the contract was fake, so that we will get our property back. And I will to get my son, Madem... Mister Rivers. I came to get Emile back and bring him safe to his mother.

I sustained his gaze for a long time. Then I withdrew three of the bullets from the barrel and threw them carelessly behind me with a evil grin and quietly closed the barrel, with a blank face. He did not move.

"I warn you right away, you're not going to get anything back tonight, Monsieur de Chagny." You leave the documents and the money where they are and you leave Mazzola alive no matter what you are going to see.

I saw him break in front of me. His eyes were full of tears and it was not because of the cold.

\- But ... Émile?

I did not reply. I only took note that he was sure that the kid was in there. I handed him his gun by the cannon.

\- I'll leave you a bullet. It will help you, if you ever decide to take anything else there besides the kid's body. To commit suicide, you know. When the guys for whom this monster works will decide to have some fun with your wife. Do we understand each other ?

He stared at me with a nameless horror. He eventually swallowed and slowly nodded his head. Yes, he was beginning to understand in which mess we were heading. I raised the weapon to the height of my eyes, with the hilt right beside my face.

"As soon as we enter this room, I said, I do not want to see your gun in any other position than this one, is it clear?" You keep it like that and that's it.''

I did not know whether Mazzola was armed or not. It was not him who got rid of people, as I was told. But it was still necessary to be able to defend itself, even if to knock Mazzola with a good hilt blow. I gave him his gun and he pocketed it discreetly without a word. I gave him a sinister grin and invited him to follow me, like a gloomy undertaker.

\- Good. Now, let's see what it's look like to make a deal with the Devil. Shall we, sir?

* * *

We walked a few minutes in the damp cold. The prostitute, a lean 20-year-old girl, was waiting for us, with all the patience of the world. I knew I had spoken loud enough, in english, so she could hear our conversation. She smiled wildly at the Vicomte, and smiled at me. She was missing a tooth.

''We watched in turn, dearie, she said. He came in three days ago. Your guy is still in there.''

''Thanks Molly. Nobody got in? Did you see anything special?''

She shrugged and looked at me, amused.

"Plenty of people came in and out here. My job was to tell you whether or not your guy was in there. The rest is none of your business.''

I gave him her an affable smile and put two cigarettes and a $ 1 bill into her stretched palm. They disappeared almost instantaneously in her skirts. She turned to De Chagny, who had remained silent all along the exchange, his face riveted on the edifice. He was hidden his disgust and impatience quite badly.

''Oh dearie, she shouted, but look at that! Look how handsome this sweet gentleman is! Leave the gentleman to me. For another dollar, I'll warm him up for you.

''Maybe some other time, Molly, I replied.''

I was going to bypass her when she got in my way, more seductive than ever.

''Are you sure, darling? Oh! Come on! Go and do your quiet little business, as planned. I'll take care of your handsome gentleman here and his pretty bump, just there, in his pants pockets.''

''Molly ...'' I sighted.

She gave a sulky pout and pulled away to let us in.

\- All right dearie ... You'll greet Maggie on our behalf, will you?

And she walked cautiously along the icy streets.

* * *

The building was like all of the Lower East Side. The only light came from the entrance, dimly lit by the streetlamps, too few in number at this intersection. Groping, we quietly walked down the corridor to the end and reached the stairs leading to the basement. I could hear the noise of the drunks and drug addicts who lived above in the upper floors. But the staircase leading to the basement was silent. I scratched a match and beckonned to my accomplice to be as discreet as possible. He only shook his head. I went down slowly. The cellar was dark and damp. I could see vaguely the door of the lair of Mazzola. I could hear the water oozing, somewhere, and the sound of the rats. Nothing else. And then the viscount behind me uttered a muffled cry. I was going to tell him to shut up when I stopped, too.

The smell. A distant perfume, sly and vicious, disagreeable and lessened by the ambient cold. It was scarcely recognizable. But it was there. An odor of carrion which infiltrated everywhere. The smell of death.

I hesitated a moment. I suddenly wanted to run away. Like a coward. What was I thinking about? What the hell did I was thinking to prove in this stinky cellar? All this was just bluff. From the beginning. All I wanted was to put two depraved cowards face to face and get confessions. Now I was afraid. Afraid of what was waiting for me on the other side of that door. Afraid of what awaited me at the exit. Fear of losing my temper. Fear of what I could do. Was it a Whyos trap? I was paralyzed. Then, the thought of this young woman, alone in front of her detuned piano, in a sinister apartment made me shudder. I thought that she would have liked to know that the child she had bear and cherished was at last with the angels and not in that hell. I closed my eyes. I still felt the warm, rough hand of Victoire on mine and I still saw her sad smile. I clung to this thought.

The match burned my fingers. It was my turn to utter a curse between my teeth. He did not react on the other side of the door. I felt the impatience of the Vicomte. I turned on another. I made him a discreet sign to prepare. Obedient, he took out his weapon, took it by the cannon, and showed me the butt, at the level of the eyes. I put on my American fist. I breathed to give myself courage.

And we pushed open the door.

The odor submerged us immediately and obscured my vision for a moment. With tears in my eyes, my stomach protested. I bent in two to catch my breath, the handkerchief over my mouth. The match lit barely the room in front of us. There were only shadows in this large room. I grabbed the first oil lamp and lit it on. I saw a camera in the corner of the room. It sat before a wall that had once been white. My gaze, for whatever reason, lingered on a brownish, tiny hand imprint someone had tried to clean, without succeeding.

Then I found Mazzola. His body was standing limply against the wall in a completely surreal position. What remained of him had soiled the wall in bloody stains. The wall had been splashed with blood. I saw what was left of his bluish face, partly smashed away in a horrible grin. I saw what hung limply from his open abdomen. Or what was left of it. I saw the black smudge under him. A heap of coagulated blood and excrement, no doubt. A real butchery. I saw the lacerations on his neck. He was first strangled with a wire. A wire that had disappeared. Then someone decided it was not horrifying enough. Mazzola was set up on his large stilts, which extended indefinitely the stumps of his legs ending at the level of the knees. He had been placed there, standing upright against the wall, like a miserable puppet, in front of his own camera. Giuseppe Mazzola, Joe, Strauss, whatever you called him, from what I was told, had been a monster. But what I saw before me was pure madness. Everything had been staged to produce a terrible comedy. But for whom? I felt my stomach turn around.

\- _Oh mon Dieu_ !

I looked up at the Vicomte and saw his shadow, his head bent, shaken by violent shrudder, kneeling in front of the back wall. Nauseous, I moved closer. In front of us, hundreds of photographs had been pinned on the wall. Hundreds of boys, completely naked, already horribly beaten, looked at us sadly, knowing what awaited them. I swallowed. None of them had ever gone through adolescence. I saw the Viscomte's eyes go frantically from one picture to another. I could se e his horrified features, his terrified look. He put a hand on his face. I saw tears running down her cheeks. He looked for Emile with his eyes, through these hundreds of desperate faces. He looked at the features, face after faces. Their imploring glances followed us in our slightest gestures. Emile was not among them. But that did not mean anything. I backed up, horrified and glanced behind me at the monstrous puppet. I saw a door in the distance. The darkroom, no doubt. I hit an office. I noticed the files scattered in the room. Acts of falsified notary, sales documents of all kinds. Contracts. Money had been scattered all across the room, stained with blood. There had to be thousands of dollars, there, on the floor. My throat was dry. It was not the Whyos or the Silicians guys who had done it. No one have left the money there.

Then I saw the black leather briefcase on the desk. It was there, on the desk, in the midst of all this bloody mess. It was laid there. Right there, to be found. I approached, hesitating and opened the file. First of all, very old photographs of a young, singing, Christine de Chagny, at the opera. Then some more recent. Émile, always Émile. In front of what was to be their house, in Paris, then at Ellis Island, in the crowd. His passport picture. I had before me a little boy too serious, with dark hair and a dreamy look that was afraid of the future. I looked through the file. Mazzola had gather a lot of informations about the Chagny. I saw here some scattered articles, on the couple misfortune, sensational articles, as Victoire had said. A copy of the false contract. Then a note, written in pencil. Raoul de Chagny creditors list and the sums he had given to various individuals over the years. A name often came back. A foreign name. Arabic or something similar. Without knowing why, I took note of it. Perhaps an accomplice of Mazzola?

I moved slowly toward the little room at the back. I could hear the rats squealing behind the door. I opened it cautiously. The smell was atrocious. A mixture of strong chemicals and decomposition made me suffocate for a moment. The light of my lamp made flee a dozen rats that slipped into the walls. It was the darkroom. There was a real mess. Someone who knew nothing about photography had tried to reproduce pictures. I saw the black photo paper, spoiled, destroyed everywhere. The chemicals bottles had been shattered on the ground, spreading their contents everywhere. The murderer had pinned pictures on the walls. Blurry photos where you could see almost nothing. On a picture, I caught a glimpse of the glazed and blurry shape of the broken doll Mazzola was. On others, one could see only shapeless silhouettes. I thought I saw that of a child but the picture was too blurry. I tried to get closer to see better and that's where I discovered the body.

He had been wrapped in an old Persian rug. I saw his little form through. I could see the big brownish spots that smeared the patterns of the fabric. I lowered the lamp and forced myself to close my eyes. I was nauseated and the room spinned before my eyes. What was stopping me from running away? Why was I not dragging the father here and made him suffer as much as his son, at this very moment?

I heard the rattle of the Viscomte's weapon in the next room. Already, half-mad, foaming with unnamed rage, he pointed his revolver at the sinister puppet and was about to shoot like a fool. Without even thinking, overwhelmed by rage, I jumped on him. With a firm fist, I split his lip. A few drops of blood spattered my face. In shock, he let go his pistol. I picked it up and took the Vicomte by the collar to drag him to the little room at the back. And I threw him on his knees in front of the body, pointing the gun on his head. I was totally disgusted. I would have split his skull up with a single bullet, if I could. He did stayed strangely quiet. He looked for a long moment, stunned, the shape in the carpet. Then a long sob came from his throat. The words came out of my mouth like venom.

'' How much did he pay you, I shouted, for that kid? How much ?''

I pressed the pistol against his head. I never killed anyone. Never. But the trigger was now burning under my finger. It was enough for me to push on it and it would be over. De Chagny seemed not to realize it. He caressed the carpet gently, completely stupefied. I heard him swallow and sniff. He said in a firm, tired voice.

''I did not know. I did not know that. I really thought that Strauss was finally offering us an opportunity that I had been waiting for too long. I would never have sold Émile to anyone. Never. I did not want that. I never wanted that. Not for my son.''

I burst out with a sinister and wicked laugh.

"Your son, you say?" Did you look at each other? Are you calling me an idiot? You sold your wife's kid to pay part of your gambling debts. A dumb boy who was not even your own kid and whom you carried like a burden, from what I heard. You didn't care about the kid. You got the money. You spent it. And to play the hero with your little wife, you pretended to seek help. Can imagine your wife, at the moment? Can you imagine if she saw all this? Can you imagine what she will think of you when she'll know?''

I saw him try to open the carpet, with gentleness and attention, as when a child is getting ready for the night. As if I was not there. He was crying silently. The blood of his lip had flowed over his shirt. He barked what seemed to be a laugh that died in his throat.

''I know what they say, he murmured. I know what they all say. How they enjoy so much telling everyone how much my wife should be a whore. How they try to call me a fool, a cuckold, because I married a theater girl. That I married Christine too quickly. How they examine our slightest acts and gestures like parasites in seeking the least crumb to wallow in what we have left. I do not care. Émile is a De Chagny. The blood of my family flowed in his veins. You hear me ? He was a real De Chagny. I would have given everything for my wife and Émile. Everything I could. I would have kill for them.''

I lowered my weapon and glanced at the small body in front of us. The small swollen hand of a seven or eight years old child appeared through the rug. The skin had begun to be blackened by decomposition. De Chagny took the tiny hand in his own and stroked it, silently as he tried to deliver the body of the rug with gentleness.

Then, finally, a tuft of hair stained with a brownish crust emerged from the rough carpet. I lifted the lamp with an horrible and guilty mixture of horror and relief.

The child lying in front of us had fair, blond hairs.

* * *

I had to drag the Vicomte by force towards the exit. He followed me like a dead weight, staggering, looking haggard, face and clothes stained with blood. I was moving fowards by pure instinct for survival. I felt numb. I felt empty. I did not want to think about anything. I welcomed the frozen air from the outside with some gratitude. Molly was gone. I looked at the decrepit building behind us. I thought of the hundreds of pictures hanging on the wall. I thought of the little body we had left there alone in this dark cellar. I thought of the question Christine asked me earlier in the evening. I do not know what pass through my mind. An impulse of rage and helplessness, no doubt. I took a large stone that was hanging out there and threw it with all my might towards one of the windows of the building, shouting some slogans that I had heard from another street gang. I heard the sound of broken glass and then I heard someone shouting. The police would soon be there. We needed to get away from there.

We were only a few blocks away from home when Raoul slipped. I almost fell with him. I tried to straighten him up when he bent over and vomited. I turned my face away. I held out my hand to help him stand up, but he only sat on the sidewalk with his head in his arms, refusing my help. I sighed and pulled out a flask from my coat. I took a long sip and handed it to him. He took it and emptied it at once. I pitied him. I sat down in the snow next to him. His eyes were lost in the void, and I enjoyed the silence for a few moments. Then, I cleared my throat and murmured.

"That ... it's not healthy to wait, like that, without doing anything, Raoul. I ... I have friends. They want to ... give your wife a real chance. The girls who work there will take care of her. They have lived through a lot of things. Your wife will not be alone. And ... and maybe there's a job for you. Maybe... you can save money a little and ... and return to France. Or elsewhere. Barry has important contacts in Chicago. I ... I do not think your son is still alive, Raoul.''

He stood there silently, lost in thought, then slowly raised his head towards me.

"He was singing before, he said. Émile. He sang as well as his mother. He would have made an excellent tenor. Emile was babbling all the time, when he was very small. As soon as he knew how to speak, it was impossible to tell him to stop talking. He was always there telling us all the stories that came out of his head. Always ask questions. Always. On everything and anything. And he had some of those questions! I had never seen a four-year-old child ask that kind of question. I do not know where he got this intelligence ... He already knew the music theory and he could already write, you know? He loved when I was telling him about my travels. So I use to sat him on my knees and talked to him about my travels. He was fascinated by what I was telling him. And then it stopped. Like that. I came back from Africa one evening and found my wife in a seizure. She had just lost our second child. The nanny had left our service without saying anything. No word. Nothing. She just left. And I found Émile shivering with fever in a closet. He had to be there for two days. And he immersed himself in his silence. Nothing has ever been the same. Nothing. I wanted a new life, with my family, away from all of this. I wanted to came back as we were before. What a fool I was.

He stood up staggering, wiped his mouth like a drunkard, took the visiting card of the theater and his weapon that I held out to him and began to walk, at random. I got up and whipped my pants from the snow.

''Raoul. Your wife vaguely spoke of a man who had attacked her in the past. She firmly believes that it was he who took your son out of revenge. I think the guy who attacked Mazzola tries to make everyone believe he is connected to you ... Who is the arabic guy, Raoul?''

He continued to walk, stumbling, without stopping, as if he had heard nothing. I shouted.

''Who is the Phantom of the Opera?''

I called him three times. I shouted his name and repeated my question.

He did not answer me and went walking on the street as if nothing matter anymore.


	13. Chapter XII : Little Games

_I_ _suggest listening to_ ** _Austra - Future Politics_** _while reading this chapter._

* * *

A/N: Resume of last chapter :

Rivers has a strange chat with Christine about motherhood. Rivers had a simple plan : bring Raoul to face Strauss/Mazzola and bring him to confess that he purposely sold Émile to the man. But when they arrive at Mazzola lair, they found Mazzola killed and they find a child body. Someone wanted to make sure this was linked to the Chagny case. Rivers confronts Raoul and let him go.

* * *

I have only vague recollections of the rest of the night. I remember having walked aimlessly for a while. I remember the frostbite on my fingers. I remember landing in a shabby tavern near the harbor. Glasses and bottles piled up in front of me. I remember to have smoked cigarettes after cigarettes to the point of having a sore throat. I remember that sentence - Christine's question - repeating itself over and over again in my head. Even the alcohol that burned my throat could not make me forget this question or what I had seen tonight. And if it was my child who was in that carpet or my son among these horrible photographs? I ordered one more drink. And then another. And I lost the count of it.

I have vague recollections of having accosted an effeminate teenager, sitting next to me. Or was it the bartender? I do not know anymore. I think I told him to keep his dick locked in his pants. And how it was to be beaten, by a brute who told you at the same time that he was doing that for your sake. I think I told him a long tale about what was a childbirth, in a cold Lower East Side hospice. I think I told him what I saw that night, but I'm not sure. I have vague memories of having a fight with a guy who wanted to touch my face. Or was it because I refused him a cigarette? I remember fuzzy images of a broken bottle on the counter, cries, a broken nose, a strange, supernatural face that looked at me from the bottom of the tavern. I remember my hands strained with blood and the dirty snow on which I was thrown, out of the bar, the few passersby who avoided me on the way back and the fetid odor of my own vomiting and the atrocious outburst it had gave me. Dizziness and chills. I can not remember how I went home. All I wanted was to go to sleep and not wake up. I vaguely remember the light beneath my door, the heat inside from the stove already lit.

And when I wanted to crash on the couch, weary, tired and sick, I finally realized that I was not alone in my office.

I do not remember the rest. I remember Victory's cool hand on my burning forehead, the feel of her fingers on my lips when I wanted to tell her what I had seen, at Strauss lair. Her sweet gestures that led me to the bed and unbuttoned my coat, my shirt and my pants. Her silence in front of my bandages covering my chest and the freshness of the sheet on my body. And the heat of her body against mine.

I woke up late in the afternoon two days later, soaked in sweat. Again and again haunted by these tombs and the armed and invisible ennemy who inhabited my feverish dreams.

And then she appeared on the threshold of my little room, with a bowl of hot broth. Victoire smiled softly at me. Her hair was a beautiful mess and had put on one of my nightgowns. I looked for a moment at her frizzy hair, which made a gigantic aura around her head. An angel descended from heaven, surely. She sat down on the bed and handed me the steaming bowl.

"Is that a habit to always look like a corpse like that, Rivers? She laughed softly."

I could not help laughing too, which caused a coughing cough. She tapped my back. For a moment I fell under her hand. I realized that I was wearing my nightgown instead of my normal clothes and, for a moment, I was overwhelmed by disgust and shame. A quick glance reassure me. I always had my bandages on my chest and my underpants. I breathed a sigh of discreet relief. I wanted to apologize. She stopped me with an almost amused gesture.

''I came to give you your jacket, she replied. Then I fell asleep on your sofa, waiting for you.''

She smiled, once again, embarrassed. I spun the spoon in the broth, not knowing what to say. She hesitantly asked with a smile.

"Did... you went to look at the Opera?"

Should I tell her that I suspected that Emile was one of the many victims of Strauss, the monster? Should I tell her that Raoul de Chagny had nothing to do with it? Deep down, I think she already knew. Yet she was looking at me thoughtfully. I remained speechless, for a long time, while I swallowed her broth obediently. I shook my head sorrowfully and put the bowl on the night table, not daring to look at the young woman.

''Victoire ... I ...''

I did not dare tell her that I wanted to let down the investigation. That the kid had probably died in atrocious conditions. I was certain of that. I felt the bile rise in my throat. I still had before my eyes the image of that monstrous puppet and the hundreds of faces that implored me with their desperate grown-up gaze. I felt tears coming to my eyes. How could we bring children into the world and make them through this? I did not want to go back there. I did not want to see those things anymore. Never again. I shuddered and curled up on myself. Another coughing flush shook me. Then I felt the warm hand of Victoire in my tangled hair. She took me against her as I burst into tears, overwhelmed by horror and fatigue. This lasted for a moment, I think. I felt her hands stroking gently my head. For a moment, I stiffened. But I finally let go and gave up on her. We remained silent for a long time, then I heard her warm voice rolling in her throat, gently.

''I saw photographs in the office. The man, the one who look like a lawyer, is he your father?''

I nodded, without saying a word.

''You have the same thin mouth and the same proud chin, you know that? And the young lady, on the other photograph ... is it your mother, your sister? She is very beautiful…. she added. ''

I laughed bitterly. I do not know why I kept this picture. No doubt to remember how I had been an idiot. And to remember how much I've changed since someone had stoled what remains from my innocence.

''It was me, I replied, abruptly.''

Victoire remained silent for a moment and raised my face with her hand. She looked at me skeptically, frowning. Then the surprise appeared on her features. She stroked my hair with a curious glance.

It was my turn to remain silent. I sighed. Even Lily did not know the whole story. And I thought she already knew too much. She sometimes had fun reminding me that I was just a woman and I hated it. I nodded to the golden ring which Victoire carried to the little finger, to change the subject.

\- Your fiancé ... Does he treat you well? Is he jealous? He's not beating you, right? You're sure he's not worry, at the moment?

Victoire looked at me with a cunning pout, brushed my hair on my forehead, and approached her face near mine, in a accomplice tone.

''I found this ring at the bottom of a suitcase that was not mine. And I'm not betrothed to anyone and I'm a free woman who can do whatever she want.

I felt her warm breath on my face and her dark eyes plunge into mine and challenge me. I looked up and kissed her. Something in me wanted to escape as far as possible when she responded enthusiastically to my embrace. How could a woman like her ever want me? But her lips were soft, voluptuous, warm and evocative and her tongue curious. So curious ... Her hands on my neck and back enthralled me. Soon her dark body was unveiled and tightened to mine, followed my movements. She never insisted that I should take off the nightgown which served me as armor, and I was infinitely grateful to her. It was only when our sweaty bodies finally gave way, exhausted against the sheets, that I felt her hand brush against the bandage on my chest and climb towards my left cheek. I moved back and my body stiffened. But the tips of his fingers, which gently followed the course of my scar, stopped on my lips.

I heard someone cleared their throat behind us. I turned, dismayed by the interruption to find myself face to face with a corpulent woman, wide pale and pock-marked. She looked at me with her little sad eyes, Her dress, simple and worn, seemed too close for her. It took me a moment to recognize it, in the light of the twilight.

''POLLY ?! I shouted. But what the hell-''

As if to apologize, she showed me an envelope. I frowned. I recognized that paper. She put it, with a gesture full of precautions, on my desk.

\- I found that on your sofa. I leave it there, all right?

She took a deep breath and gave me a pained smile, then slipped away into the apartment.

I heard footsteps and the sound of a heavy cane on which we lean too much on the floor. The anguish suddenly rose within me. I could have recognized this step among a thousand. I wanted to protect Victoire. Painfully, I tried to get up from bed but dizziness made me sit down. When I raised my head to Victoire, I saw nothing but fear. She stared at the entrance without moving, her arm clenched on the sheet which hid her nakedness. A tall and opbese woman, with gray hair and wrinkled face, all dressed in black, with a bowler hat, looked at us with lust, in the shadow of the embrasure of the room. I saw her insidious glance detailing each curve of the woman who had opened her arms to me. Maggie looked at me with an evil grin. I saw her golden tooth, slendered, shining in the twilight.

"Did you slept well, little Matty?"

* * *

I was still a little weak and Victoire had to help me to button my shirt, as anxiety was upon me. She put on her dress in haste and looked nervously at the bedroom's door. In my office, I could hear Maggie humming an old Irish ride, as if nothing had happened. I could hear her cane beating the cadence and the time. I shuddered. I leaned under the bed and pulled out my revolver, which I handed to Victoire. I put my hand on her shoulder, as close as possible from her and whispered to her as gently as possible, pointing at the small window of the chin.

''Whatever happens in my office, don't go there, all right? If you can ... run out of the window. You just have to grab yourself on the ramp and let yourself fall ... I've done it once or twice ... you're less likely to hurt yourself than if you're alone here, believe me.''

I kissed her passionately and got up from the bed and headed for the door. I cast a last glance at Victoire. She returned it to me, with a faint smile on her lips. She tried to hide her terror and keep her calm, as I felt grateful for that.

When I entered my office, the old woman had already settled. She was studying the picture of Émile, which I had left on my desk. I detailed her for a moment. Her rare gray hair tied in a tight chignon, which little by little show her scalp. Her face was as wrinkled as that of an infant and showed a bitter pout despite good humor expression she was displaying. Her heavy breasts tended her velvet dress. Hell-Cat Maggie had once been a legend, thirty years ago. But a bullet near the spinal column seemed to have reduced her to a carcass of aging and defenseless flesh. She no longer looked like that solid woman who had taken me under her wing, eight years before, and had force me into her little power games.

But to believe that Maggie was only an old frail woman was a deadly mistake. A single movement and I would end up with a bullet between the eyes. I knew it.

I sat down carefully at my desk. Polly, standing near the front door, bowed her head, ashamed. I gave her a sad smile. I had once been at her place. I turned to Maggie, who stared at me. I saw her slender teeth, too slender, behind her cracked lips. I took a short breath.

She put before me, the newspaper of the day before, the page turned on a random incident. A fire on Mulberry Street, near Canal Street. A problem with a furnace in the basement. Eight dead, including two children. I recognized the address. I closed my eyes.

"Lyons arrived just in time, she said. He did a bit of cleaning, before the police came, as you can see.''

She paused for a moment, observing my reaction. The yellow paper was already blurred before my eyes and my hands were shaking. Eight dead. Maggie gave me an maternal smile.

"They came to see me yesterday, she continued. They even ransacked the bar. Nothing too serious, I assure ya'. They were a lit' angry, you know. 5000 dollars, unusable. There was blood everywhere on the bills. On all bills. We can not use bills stained with blood and shit like that. A real loss. And I understand 'em. I would had been mad too.

I was about to reply when she stopped me with a violent cane stroke on my desk. I shuddered. She pointed at me with the tip of her cane, with an angry grin.

''Don't interrupt me, Matt. I did not say a word when ya' wanted to start your little private bus'ness, three and a half years ago, when you left Lily. Even if it bothered me to see ya' leave. I endured your little friendship relationship with the gal I loved. I endured your dam' debt at the bar. Even though I knew ya' didn't have a penny to pay. I have endured that you use my name for your littl' business. Because you have a real potential, darling. So I let ya' go like a big gal. Because I believed in ya'. I told that to Driscoll and Lyons. It was not my lit' Matty who did that. I know my little Matty, she believe a bit too much at she's a gentleman or som'thing but she would never have the balls to kill anyone. My lit' Matty would not have been able to make a butchery like that. She imagines herself like a tough guy, but she's a lit' sensitive heart, my lit' Matty. I even told 'em the time ya' found, I do not know how, Lily's husband and when ya' sent me that desperate telegram, in the middle of a fair in Alabama, so I could finish the dirty work. Because ya' were not able to press on the trigger. I told 'em that story. It calmed 'em down a bit.''

I was livid and I knew it. I was thinking of Victoire who was behind and listening to all this. I massaged my temples and tried to reply, faintly.

"Ma ... Mazzola was already dead when we showed up. Molly has certainly told them that, right? For at least two days. They must have seen it, do they?

Maggie showed me once again her pointed teeth and abstractedly struck the floor with her cane.

\- Yeah. They saw it. They talked to me about your lit' French gentleman and his gun. They told me about his wife. You know, I met her last night at the theater. Barry hired her, finally. His contact in Chicago was very insistent. She has talent, this child. A great talent. I saw her at her audition. A beautiful lit' gal. A lit' crazy, especially when she starts talking about music ... but good god she sings well ... never seen a gal sing like this ... It would be a shame that something happens to her, eh? They also told me about your black sweetheart, you know. I mean, that's great for you. Who am I to question your lit' tastes, my sweet Matty. She was looking for Mazzola too. I do not want to make bad deductions ... It's a dam' good customer. She is welcome when she wants, with that money of hers. It would really struggle me to hurt her like that.

I cput my hand to my face, completely terrified. No, I didn't want nothing to happens to the sweet Christine. And especially not Victoire. Maggie knew that. And very well. I break downand begged.

\- Listen to Maggie ... The guy was already dead. De Chagny has nothing to do with that. Victoire either ... It was ... It was a disgusting guy, he ...

''I know my beautiful Matty, she replied. I know. Otherwise, ya'd be cold already. And your lit' french too. Shaney, right? Ah, Joe ... He was a ... quite a special guy, Joe. And there was $ 5,000 on the floor, smeared with his blood. Ya' know what we're doing, with $ 5,000 stained with blood? We use as fuel and that's it. Ya' know what Lyons thinks? The guy who did that was following your lit' Frenchman. Ya' want to know what I think? The guy who committed this butchery was following ya'. Just ya'. The kid has disappeared for three weeks and Mazzola was still in good shape until 3 days ago. Until ya' decide to find him. And ya' laid that lit' butcher to him. Ya' did not see that, Matt.

But ya'll find the one who did that. I promised that to Lyons. And to Driscoll, ya' know. And ya'll find him, I know. I'll give ya a month. No more. Otherwise, I'll have to look after the lit' French gal and your sweetheart myself. That's what I promised Lyons. And I always keep my promises, ya' know. And Roz is only waiting for that, to take care of your lit' girlfriend.''

She stood up painfully from the couch, looking overwhelmed. She grabbed her cane and turned to the entrance.

''A month. I know ya. Ya're gonna find me this guy in no time. Don't deceive me, lit' Matty. It will take more than an iron ramp to your sweetheart to get rid of me, this time. Say hello to her on my behalf, she look like a sweet gal'.

And she left my office.

When I went to my room, I noticed, with some strange relief, that the window was open. Victoire was no longer there. My gun, either. Her gold ring was placed there, on my bedside table. I picked it up and watched it for a short time. It had seen better days. Like if the ring has been switch from hand to hands over the years. Inside, a faded inscription. But all I could read was E then a G. Not even initials. A simple ring. It looked a little tight on Victoire's finger. On mine, it held itself up like a charm.

I sat down at my desk and stared at my father's picture for a moment. What would he have done in a case like this?

I looked down at the paperwork on my desk. And I saw the letter Polly had laid at the corner of my desk. I felt the thickness of the envelope. I turned it around. On the luxurious paper my name appeared in red letters. I frowned, I recognized this writing. The note found among the Chagny. I opened it. A photograph and a sheet. I uttered a hiccup of terror.

I examined the sheet. The same red, trembling handwriting. Or was it my hand that was trembling? I do not know anymore. The words were dizzy, before my eyes. I had to read it twice to decipher it. I gasped and read the letter a second time.

 _Where is the abandoned child, Mathilde?_  
 _Where is Émile, now?_  
 _I look forward to our lovely reunion._

 _O.G._

I dropped the letter on my desk. I was violently shaking. What I had seen at Mazzola - the Chagny file, placed neatly in the middle of this bloody mess - was not an accident. Someone was having fun with the Chagny's life.

Now, someone, supposedly dead in a blaze in Europe, nine years ago, had also decided to have fun with mine.

The abandoned child. My abandoned child. How did this monster knew that?

I did not dare to look back at the photograph. I knew what it contained.

Émile.

Emile, emaciated but still alive. Dressed in his beautiful fine Sunday clothes, which had been strung on December 23, stained and torn. Émile who looked at me with a nameless terror, standing, paralyzed in front of the lens, with the shadow of the sinister puppet behind him. The child implored me with his dark eyes, his eyes sunk in their sockets, to come and rescue him from the ghostly claws that had taken hold of him and which did not intend to release him.

I felt like part of a sinister game.

A game that was just beginning.

* * *

A/N : The english version is now up to date with the french one.

How do you like this story, so far?

Also... While ''Ghosts'' fits well with this novel... the title is over used, for a Phantom of the Opera sequel. If you have any title ideas for this novel, please let me know


	14. Act III : Chapter XIII : Strangers

"You have made a mistake, sir."

I gave her, once more, the detailed description of Victoire, insisting, a foot in the door. The concierge in the building shook her head nervously and gave me a frightened look. I watched her go back inside the house, her gaze on my scar. I knew what I looked like. A tired and disfured pale man, who scarcely held on his two legs, and who presented himself at her door at twilight, feverishly asking to speak to one of her boarders. I scared her and I knew it.

"There are no such women in my house," she repeated, in a firm tone, "it is a proper establishment here." You have been told the wrong address.

I stepped back, incredulous, and watched the whole building. No, I was not at the wrong address. I could still see Victoire on the threshold of the door, her hand on the handle, with her tired smile and her laughing eyes. I was burstiing out of anxiety. Running off the ramp, behind my building was not that easy. It was necessary to grip the window sill and drop in the right place ... And with all the glaze of the last days ... I suddenly tried to figure out how a woman with her skirts and boots could keep her balance on the icy metal. What if Victoire was hurt? What if Maggie had not respected her commitment? Why had Victoire given me a false address? Why this comedy? My thoughts made me stunned. Of course she had given me the wrong address. Do you give your real address to a guy who looks like a killer the first night you meet him? After all, she paid me. She knew where to find me. And things had changed so much in such a short time ... And if Victoire did not come back? I felt a great emptiness. I closed my eyes to hold back my tears. How stupid I had been to think so much of a pure stranger! The sound of the door lock came out of my thoughts. I saw the concierge looking at me, on the other side of the window, and watching my slightest movements, with a poisonous air. Defeated, I lit a cigarette and left the threshold of the door.

My footsteps led me to Orchard Street, in front of the building where the Chagny lived. I raised my head towards the little window, on the third floor, which looked out on the alley. The curtains, yellowed, had been drawn. Who was better placed than Raoul and Christine to tell me about the Angel of Death who held their son and who haunted their lives? I nervously inhaled and bit my cheek. The envelope, in the pocket of my coat, was almost burning my fingers. How would the Chagny react? I imagined the poor mother, overwhelmed by the expression of her son in the photograph. I imagined Raoul recognizing the background. Would it have been better if Emile had already died? I shuddered and headed down on the building.

Silence reigned on the third floor. Fumbling in the dim light, I climbed the stairs and made my way to the Chagny's door. I drummed at the door and did not get any answer. I tried again, three times, with the same result. I let my eyes wander in the corridor plunged into the shadows. The door of the apartment 5 intrigued me. I could not imagine an unoccupied tenement in New York. The building was better than mine and the rents should not have been excessive. I observed the strange signs hurriedly drawn on the door. I put my hand on the handle to enter in discreetly when I heard the clicking of a gun behind me.

I turned quickly to meet face to face with Raoul. His expression horrified me. The weapon pointed at my head, he looked at me with all the rage and despair of the world. He still had a withers attached to his arm. His pupils, dilated by the cocaine he had just injected, pierced me better than the bullet he was already planning to put through my skull. I stammered, hands raised in the air, showing him the envelope I was hanging on.

"Raoul, that's me, Rivers. Émile is alive ... Where ... where is your wife? I ... I have to talk to her.''

His features took on a bitter expression and he gave me a wicked smile. I saw his finger rest, trembling, on the trigger.

"All I have left is the bullet you left in that loader, _Miss_. I will not let you torment my wife, do you hear me? Come on. Tell me, how much you were paid, to came here and harm Christine with your false hopes, eh?''

I swallowed and backed away, my eyes fixating the gun. Instinctively, I wanted to grab mine, but then I remembered that I had left it with Victoire to defend herself. I felt the sweat begin to pear on my forehead. Raoul was not quite himself and arguing became rash. But I had to go on, I had to know who was that damn _O.G._ For Émile, for Victoire and for Christine. For Raoul too, even if he was not aware of it yet.

''Please...'' I begged. ''Put down your weapon. I ... I'm here to help you ... I'm sorry, for the other day ... I ... I'm so sorry to have put you through this, Monsieur de Chagny. I spoke to your maid and ...''

'' _My maid_? Victoire?'' He shouted. ''This poor girl is in New Orleans, isn't she? My wife wanted to get rid of it before we came to this country. She did not like her. Christine thought that girl was a bad example for Emile. I paid the doctor for that girl. I insisted that she come with us on the boat so she could join the family she had here. I paid her fucking train ticket. And that's how this bitch thanks us, telling false rumors about us to the first comer?''

I relegated what I had just heard to the dark side of my brain, I think. I recalled the warnings of Victoire on the differences between Raoul and Christine on money. I put Raoul's remarks on the account of the delirium in which he was.

"I need to know what happened nine years ago. I need to know who was the Phantom of the Opera. Your wife told me-''

He laughed as if I had uttered a good joke. A laugh without any joy. Then he paused, more serious than ever. He moved towards me, holding the gun in my direction. I wanted to go back off a bit and slipped on the first step of the staircase and came down heavily on a few steps. I stood up painfully, with a dull ache on my back. The gun in front of me had not moved.

''Again the damn Phantom, right? Never say this name again in front of us. Especially not in front of my wife. She can not stand it. And whenever this Ghost returns, in the whispers of the neighbors, in thenewspapers accusations, or in the words of a madman of your kind, I lose a little more the woman I love into madness. Christine is fragile. She has always been. Even when we were children. I was twelve years old when I first saw singing and believing whatever her father and her godmother said, and I had fifteen when I swore to love her and protect her forever. And I will do it until I die. Do you hear me ? Until my death. I will not let you hurt her.''

He had spat out the last sentence with all the will and passion he was capable of. I saw his features clenched under the imaginary threat, his muscles cringed, ready to attack. I could see his shoulders trembling with emotion and his eyes fogged with tears. I bowered my head.

\- Leave New York. Leave tomorrow, okay? Flee to Chicago. I'll found you ... with Émile.

He lowered his revolver and looked at me with an air mingled with pity and disgust. I knew he had no hope for Emile and that he thought I was trying to redeem myself in some twisted way.

"Maybe I must say it in English, perhaps, _sweetheart_?" _Get out._

Then he turned away from me, his shoulders lowered, as if all the weight of the world had suddenly collapsed on him. And he went home, gently closing the door.

When I went downstairs, the old concierge was waiting for me, totally mad. She was going to bugger me, to unload all the frustration she had accumulated on the Chagny since their tumultuous arrival when I handed her one of the 20 dollar bills that Victoire had given me, with the most threatening glance I was capable of.

''For rent of apartment 4.'' I said. ''And household, kitchen and linen. All the household. Everyday. It's better to be done, okay? And bring a piano tuner. I'll come back.''

* * *

I waited all night, staring at the door, anxious as hell, without daring to turn it away for a minute. I had to tell myself the truth. Victoire wasn't coming back. Could I blame her? The emptiness in me became more intense than ever. I felt lonely in that room which contained all that I had wished to be and all that I had desired. My throat was tight and my heart heavy. In the early morning, I went out to take the air, far from my dark thoughts.

It was useless to return to see De Chagny and his wife. They were really shaken by the loss of their son. What they said no longer made any sense. My mind wanders, thinking about Raoul. He loved his wife more than anything else in the world. He may have fallen very low, but I had felt there, while he was shouting in front of me with his gun, that he had once been a really good guy. A strange impression, I suppose. It did not change that I had to find the one who haunted them, whether he liked it or not.

A hot black coffee revived me a little and I walked slowly towards the Astor Library and paced in front of the entrance until the library opened.

The old keeper of the library found me at the door, surrounded by cigarette butts, which I subtly tried to eclipse from the portico. He frowned and resigned himself to letting me in before the hour. He left me in the vast reading room facing a pile of old French newspapers.

I ended up finding an October or November article from last year of a Parisian gossips newspapers. _The Opera Ghost Still Haunts Them._ The article didn't bring me much. Chagny's financial troubles had begun long before New York, and the mysterious and violent intrusion of which the article spoke appeared to me as the signature Mazzola's little tricks. A suspect was arrested and released. A former Persian police chief.

It summarized a little too quickly the incident that occurred nine years earlier. Oil was dropped out of nowhere on the fire ramps during the representation and caused a dazzling fire that had destroyed completely the Pelletier theater. In the mess that the fire had engendered, a singer named Christina Daaé had disappeared, supposedly kidnapped by a burning eyed creature that came straight from a _penny dreadful_. The fire had killed twelve people, including the Comte de Chagny, the brother of Raoul, whose body had been found two days later, several corners of the street away, in the depths of the Catacombs of Paris. I frowned. Was it for this that the Vicomte was overwhelmed to this point with this story ? What was his brother doing there?

One or two telegrams well written at the 9th arrondissement police station in Paris and at the _L'Époque_ would probably give me more details about who conducted the investigation and the results of the of it.

* * *

After sending my telegrams to the other side of the ocean, I hailed a fiacre to the the 2nd Avenue, where O'Reilly's station was located. With my left hand, swollen, well wrapped up in my pocket, I dodged the coachmen and the dung of their horse while bypassing the itinerant vendors, to go to the police station. I absolutely had to talk to O'Reilly.

I had just gone a little earlier on the MET site in the evening. The workers had long since left and I imagined that I had the freedom to explore the place. I observed the structure of the building which stood before me. The facade and a good part of the interior of the building, which stretched almost to 7th avenue, had been almost completed. It was already an immense building. Perhaps not the highest, but the seven floors of its front already gave my a little vertigo quiver. A shiver ran through my spine. The inauguration was to take place later this fall. They were promising us a modern and shining city in a couple of years. Manhattan was gradually being invaded by expensive building sites. The central station, already magnificent, was to be rebuilt and put New York on the map. It was now possible to dream, far from our sordid life in Lower East Side, of the splendid Gothic towers which rose gradually from the framework of Brooklyn Bridge. And now, MET was going to put us in tune with the biggest cities in Europe.

I noticed that the palisades surrounding the site had been reinforced with iron gratings which appeared to be recent. With the wet temperatures, the metal should have been all rusted , since the beginning of the works. I managed to squeeze myself into a forgotten breach behind the building. The site was deserted and silent, illuminated by streetlights, on Broadway Street. At the rear, the workers had begun to fill the ground. I had to walk with cautious steps. The forgotten tools, the debris of all kinds and the frozen ground made the walk rash. I approached the back entrance. It had been barricaded with a solid padlock.

''Hey you ! What are you doing there, huh?''

The light of the lantern, darted at me and dazzled my eyes. I turned, one hand in front of my eyes, to fall face to face with a big sweeting man, visibly already drunk that threatened me with his truncheon. In spite of his grim expression, he seemed more surprised than anything else to see me there.

''Did not you see it was a construction site?'' He shouted. ''Get out of here or I'll blow your little bones out.''

I lifted my arms innocently in the air, with a foolish expression and an embarrassed smile and pretended to stagger a little.

''Oh come on'' I said. Just a minute, man. I just wanted to take a piss.''

I waited a minute or two, keeping my silly smile. But he did turned away. Tensed, I pretended to unbutton my bracket and have difficulty removing my pants to confirm my sayings, hoping that he would not stay there to watch and that I could take advantage of the moment to hide on the building site. I was scared to death. What if the guy had the good idea to play pee-hit? But the drunkard took me by the arm and dropped his fetid breath on my face, dragging me, with his truncheon under my throat, towards the exit of the building site.

''Yeah right!'' He shouted. ''Like I'm gonna let your piss everywhere down here! We've had enough problems like this, on this damned site. There's no need for another fucking disfigured corpse here. Get out !''

I disengaged myself much more easily than I would have believed and stepped back a few steps to better observe the reactions of the man that was moving towards me. My heart was racing in my chest.

''A body?'' I asked. ''You found a body here? When? Which problems you have on this site ?''

The guard stopped short, his eyes wide with terror, as if I had just told him that he had just lost his job. He babbled, realizing his blunder.

''Fuck, but ... Are you a fucking reporter? They ... They have told me to shut the fuck up about th- Get out of here, son of a bitch. Get out of here !''

I did not get anything else beside a truncheon blow on the fingers. I was lucky that nothing was broken.

* * *

Despite the late hour, the NYPD police station was still teeming with activity. O'Reilly was working in the evening and would not have left the post yet, I knew it. I saw his flaming head through the crowd. As soon as he saw me, he frowned in his nose and stepped discreetly towards me, casting worried looks around him.

''Riv's ?!''

I would have strangled him on the spot, I think. I already fantasized about my hands around his neck. But before being close enough, Inspector Franklin intercepted me, cutting short at the reunion, with an authoritarian gesture towards O'Reilly to leave us alone. The young policeman gave me a distressed look and obeyed his superior, who already made an angry gesture towards the back of the room. He joined me a few minutes later, when I lit a cigarette.

''Didn't I told you enough not to show up here like that without at least a message?''

I made a piteous pout and exhaled the smoke towards the ceiling, with a thoughtful air. We had a funny relationship, me and Inspector Franklin. If O'Reilly still regarded me as the worthy knight who had taken him out of the clutches of delinquency and put him back on the right path, Franklin would see me differently, I would say. One of his men had surprised me in a tavern at Greenwich Village, in a more than delicate situation, a long time ago. At the time, some too feminine ways betrayed me. The policeman understood that I was not really a man and had me locked up at the Bellevue Hospital for deviance. The few days that followed had been horrible. More than I wanted to remember. Then, Franklin, in a routine interrogation, discovered that I knew Hell-Cat Maggie. And he understood that I knew by far the actions of the Whyos. He had pulled me out of this Hell and he had not regretted it.

He grumbled in his beard for a moment. Then he detailed me, from head to foot, with an exaggerated disgust, pointing my clothes and motioned me to follow him to his little office. He closed the door behind me, and sat down heavily on his chair. He sighed, tired of this little comedy. I was better than many of his men and he knew it. He liked me, in his own way. He put the ashtray in my direction, as usual, eyes full of hope.

''You got something for me?'' He asked, softly.

I dropped the cigarette butt into the ashtray, in pure indifference, and sat down in my turn, in the wobbly chair in front of him. I shrugged.

''Mulberry Street's fire.'' I said. ''You know, I saw Driscoll's signatures on some contracts that were scattered in this room. Not counting the murders. You could have hung him on the spot. I threw a stone into a window, to alert everyone. But Lyons arrived before your men and made a nice bonfire with your proofs.''

He drew back in his chair, looking pensively and vaguely disappointed. He smoothed his mustache and stared at me with his metallic gray eyes. I was not telling him something he didn't know. Oh I'm sure he was pissed. But he was not going to tell me that, however. At 64 years old, Franklin was close to retirement and he knew it. He had confronted the Draft Riots brilliantly, saved some colleagues from the rioters and had been promoted. Now he was waiting for a big shot to retire gracefully.

''And you came down here just to tell me that?'' Franklin asked.

''Well, I learned, just like that, that a corpse had been found at MET. I came to seek the news, boss.'' I told him.

The expression that appeared on his face! I thought he was going to throw himself at me. He leaned forward, incredulous and livid, toward me.

''And you've put your little nose in there, little brat.''He said. ''Where did you get that from, huh? It should not have been known by anybody. Even a little chick like you would not have found anything. This opera has already caused scandal because of its construction's costs. We were promised a building under $ 600,000... And now it's three times over! We did not need a corpse on the building site. It scares the workers. And it is especially scary to the Astors, Rockfellers and Morgan who will pay the big price for their lodges. It was Cornelius Vanderbilt himself who sent the memo to Captain Byrnes to close quickly the case without telling no one. You understand what I'm saying ?''

I nodded silently, unable to reply, this time. No need to joke that I had made friends with the guardian's site. My little investigation had slipped out of the kids playground and the Chagny's Phantom pushed me straight towards an abyss that I would have difficulty to avoid if I made a false step.

''Anyway, you're late, Rivers.'' He continued. ''It happened three weeks ago and the case is closed. He was an itinerant, a foreigner that had just landed here, who didn't know anybody. He had no family, no history, and was probably attacked by one of his mad fellows for food. The victim and the guilty party wait quietly at the Bellevue Hospital. That's how it was classified. Not enough important to make headlines. Why are you interested in that?

An itinerant found dead three weeks ago on the site of the Metropolitan Opera House. I was thinking about what the kid in NYJA had told me. That he had seen Emile follow an itinerant on the evening of December 23rd. I loosened my tie, which suddenly seemed to suffocate me.

"I'm looking for a mute 8-year-old boy who disappeared just three weeks ago, in front of the Metropolitan.'' I replied ''Does that remind you of something ?''

The inspector stared at me for a moment, rummaging through the dozens of missing children cases who had to land every week on his desk. Then he sighed angrily.

"The Frenchman, is not it?" He laughed. ''Do not waste your time with that, little girl. The man is already under surveillance as a suspect for murder, And it seems that this is not the first time it happens to him, but I have no details. Although I doubt very much that he's even able to stand up from his drink. He can not leave the city, his passport is crossed out everywhere. Did he told you that? He also told you that they had hurriedly left the carriage, leaving the kid there alone? The coachman waited an hour. An hour, according to his words. They have not reappeared. Did they told you that they had almost been turned away at the immigration office? Their son has mental disorders. They call it ... Progressive mutism or something like that. That kid is able to speak, he just don't want to. The child would have had a severe nervous shock a few years ago. You imagine the adult that it will be? Is it up to the good Americans to take care of these people, tell me? This child ran away. That's what they were told and it ends there.''

I lowered my head, closing my eyes. If Franklin knew how much more monstrous than a simple fugue. No doubt he already knew it. But he preferred to look elsewhere.

''Can I take a look at the found body, boss?'' I asked.

Franklin was now wrinkling his eyes and silently daring me to repeat my question. He had quite understood that the investigation was closed. I raised my head and looked defiantly at the inspector.

"I'd like to examine the body we found near Longacre Square*, boss." I said. ''I think this may be my neighbor above, you know. We have not seen him for three weeks and Bennett is wondering what to do. I need a pass.''

He grumbled again and think, a long time. Then he nodded, satisfied with my answer. He took a sheet and wrote down a few words and handed it to me coldly.

''Ask O'Reilly to come with you. The pass is under his name. I warn you, Rivers. Don't wanders around the MET. There are things much worse than spending a few days in the psychiatric wing of the Bellevue. Do we understand each other ?''

I made a sign that I understood very well.

He got up, walked around and opened the door of his office, pointing me the exit. I got up, readjusted my tie, and dusted my jacket with an impassive air.

"You would not have any contact with the Police of Paris?" I asked.

He burst into a bitter laugh and slammed the door under my nose.

* * *

The sight of the high walls, furnished with turrets, of the principal pavilion of the Bellevue Hospital gave me shrivers. I had to look away, the handkerchief over my mouth, so as not to be sick in front of O'Reilly. I hated this hospital with all my guts. It was there that I had been taken, eight years older, twisted in pain to bring into the world a being I had never wanted. It was there that I was locked up, tied up on a bed, a year later, and at the mercy of the staff, to cure those "deviations" that was so disturbing. I vaguely remembered this guard who had simply decided to cover my face with his stinking-piss handkerchief to do his dirty work. As if, it was really going to cure me and make me normal.

I only smelled that, in this hospital. Piss. The odor infiltrated all its walls. The nurse took us silently through the maze of corridors to the morgue on the first floor. O'Reilly threw me anxious looks. I was white as a corpse, no doubt.

The morgue was only a large deserted and luminous room, furnished with a series of dissecting tables and a huge sink. At the back of the room, a man in his forties, wrapped in a white coat, was leaning over the body of a middle-aged woman and slowly sewing her chest, adjusting the glasses he had on his nose. It was a damp and cold, in this room but the smell less bothered me. Here I was on familiar ground. I had sometimes accompanied my father, to help him take notes.

O'Reilly approached the doctor and spoke to him in a low voice, showing him the pass that the Inspector had given me. The man got up and gave me a bored look, over his binocles and without leaving his post, the scalpel in his hand.

"We bury the unclaimed bodies after a few days, sorry."

O'Reilly gave me a sad look and was about to leave the morgue. I sighed angrily. I felt tired of being taken for a dwelling or for someone weak. I knew the procedures. I replied to the doctor in the same manner. My voice echoed strangely, in the empty room.

"With the temperatures we've had since the beginning of winter?" I shouted. ''It's a murder case. We always wait a little before burying them. You must have kept it, right? Or you have kept the pictures. And his personal belongings? You have to keep them a month, for identification.''

The doctor noisily placed his knife on the table and made us an impatient sign to wait, leaving us alone with the corpse of the woman. O'Reilly pawed and wiped his forehead, looking at the exit. He opened his mouth to begin the conversation. He inquired about my left hand. I cut him short with a grim look.

A good hour was spent in silence. Then the doctor reappeared, preceded by two assistants who put a body covered with a sheet on the nearest table. The doctor put down a wooden box and a file in front of me and motioned me to get close to the body. The smell plunged me back into Mazzola's lair.

"I must warn you at once, gentlemen." The doctor said. ''The murderer left him in a nasty state and time made its work. It is not pretty.''

And he lifted the sheet.

O'Reilly stifled a curse. The corpse belonged to that of a middle-aged man, of arab origin. The decay had blackened his skin but he had to be more dark-skinned than average. His features had been more angular in the past. The rest was indescribable. What remained of the eye of the corpse was fixed upon us for eternity. Even if the decomposition was already well advanced, the horror still remained alive, on this face. It was probably my imagination ... I had the impression that the man had turned and recognized his executioner before receiving his first blow. An executioner he never expected to find there. I shuddered. The right side of his face was smashed by an heavy object or something. Mazzola's face presented the same monstrous wounds. I backed up to catch my breath and signed myself by pure reflex and muttered a prayer.

The doctor had soon veiled the man's face and made a sign to his men to dispose of the body. O'Reilly vomited in the sink. The doctor handed me the file with mockery and returned to his work on the woman's corpse. I opened the file.

The victim had first been stabbed deeply on the side, by surprise and had part of his face smashed with a stone that had been found a few meters further on the site. The man was indeed of arab origin and had to be a good fifty years old. A Persian passport had been found on him. The investigation was closed the next day when another beggar was found and telling weird stories about a body.

I grabbed the wooden box, emptied its contents without precautions on the table and rushed on the passport. The last stamp, which was two months old, was French. He had embarked, in third class, on a steamboat called Le Normandie. I recognized the name I had seen in Mazzola's files and in the newspaper article.

The Persian.

I rummaged through the rest. O'Reilly told me to calm down, but I sent him to hell. The box contained worn clothes and a long gray coat that had been intentionally cut with a knife to give them the appearance of rags. Fine golden, twisted and broken glasses and a violin case. No doubt the case had to be found under the body of man. The shock of the fall and the weight of the corpse had broken it and it was stained with brownish crusts. The instrument that should have been there had not been found. I mechanically opened the case. The velvet inside seemed to have been new. Except in a place where a tear had been hidden. My fingers passed under the fabric and I felt a piece of paper between the lining and the case. To extract it was a delicate thing, and a curse escaped me when I discovered its contents. A false passport. Successful enough not to alarm the train controller, overwhelmed by a third class, who would carelessly stammer the passport of the 8-year-old boy he would have in front of him and would not pay any attention to the person who would accompany him.

I lifted a livid face to the doctor.

"You say nobody came to identify the body?" I asked, frantically.

He sighed, once more with his annoyed look, utterly disturbed by my presence.

"The police made an announcement about what they found in the Hudson.'' He replied.'' An idiot who had not even taken the time to read completely the article passed because she believed it was her fiancé. _Obviously_ it was not her fiancé!''

At grips with a gloomy presentiment, I grabbed the file and reread it up and down. The lady's signature had been carelessly requested, on the margin of the form to state that she didn't recognize the body. I reread it several times before O'Reilly pulled the file from my hands and took me outside. Each angle and every stylized and well-written and discernable curve of ink was engraved in my mind.

 _Victoire's signature._


	15. Chapter XIV : Telegrams

_A/N : Telegrams is an interlude, but still... with some important clues. I apologize for the delay. Work, moving and writing don't get along. Next chapter is full of clues too!_

 _A few minor changes, for more coherence, from last chapter._

 _\- Raoul is drunk, not on cocaine. Cocaine had been brought on the market in... 1884._

 _\- The stone has not been found on the Opera house building site but on a homeless man._

 _If you ever see incoherences... PM me! Ghosts is a first draft, after all! It's there to make sure it's reviewed and afterwards...perfect!_

* * *

The clerk had led us to a dark cell from which we could'nt see much. It was there that they forgot the fanatics that were not controlled at the Bellevue Hospital. I thought at first that the guy was laughing at us and led us nowhere. I even wondered, for a moment, if this cell was not intended for me. But the, the metal bed finally creaked and a chain scraped the stone floor in the darkness and a shaggy and broken shape appeared under the lantern of the clerk. I stepped back a step or two, shaken by the foul smell. What had once been a man approached the bars and clung to it as if nothing else supported him. I walked bravely toward the ghoul, which seemed straight out of Hell Kitchen or the Lower East Side.

''Jansson?'' I asked.

The creature sprinkled me with his spit while shouting an incomprehensible hymn with somewhat unusual Germanic consonances that were probably lacking in my New York culture. I wiped my left cheek nervously. I heard the clerk behind me pulling out the water hose and O'Reilly clearing his throat. The man calmed down and looked at me through the bars, his eyes distraught. I tried to make him a soothing gesture. I remember that too much of those icy squirts. I articulated as slowly as possible, trying to mimic my words so that the man could understand me, despite the difficulties he seemed to have in English, according to the staff. Nobody seemed to understand. I repeated his name, as if to make him more human. I needed him to be human.

''We found you with a stone. A stone full of blood.'' I said '' This stone came from a ... building site, a building under construction where a man was found dead. What happened there, Jansson?''

I looked imploringly toward the man. But the man only shook his head vigorously, murmuring plaintively in a language that no one understood. It was my turn to throw myself on the bars. I heard O'Reilly and the hospital clerk swear behind me and try to hold me back but I did not care. That ghoul was perhaps the last person to see Émile. The only person to see his attacker, apart from the disfigured corpse lying in the morgue, a floor higher up. I had to know what he had seen.

''Jansson! I know you are innocent! I know it ! Who told you to take the stone? Who ? Have you seen a child? Did you see a woman? A woman with black skin?''

The man put his face close to mine. His broken teeth were filthy and his breath stank like hell. He grabbed his dirty hand on the sleeve of my jacket and planted his pale blue eyes into mine. He gave me a monologue in his mother tongue. Singing guttural sounds that made no sense to me. Words from which one could feel a mixture of wonder, terror and disappointment. I thought I understood a word that vaguely resembled "angel" somewhere, but that was all. I made him a sign that I did not understand anything. He pointed at his forehead, the ceiling of the cell, and all around him, with a frightened look, as if the killer was an omnipresent being who could hear us, and who was there, invisible, beside him. Then, in a hesitant and rocky voice, he whispered in English.

''Angel.'' The man said. ''No man. Beautiful voice. Closer. Closer than seems. You think angel is far away. No. Promises me to bring me home if I take stone. I want to go home. With Angel. I want to go home, now. Promise me I'll see paradise''

And he pull with all his strength on my sleeve.

I shouted a cry of pain, when my face crashed in the bars, I've tried to remove my jacket me but the madman did not want to let go. A taste of iron filled my mouth as my lip blleded on my chin. He began to scream, in his native tongue, as the clerk unrolled the gate and rushed at him with a truncheon. As I left the basement, supported by O'Reilly, I still heard the madman shouting again and again the same word. Angel.

I was nervously throwing my fourth cigarette butt over the docks when O'Reilly stopped my gesture, furiously.

''I never saw you like that Riv's.'' He shouted ''Never. Will you tell me what is going on, now?''

I shrugged and went to a cab, with the firm intention of not answering him. He had wanted to play the valiant knight and to give me a case that no one wanted. Fine. And now my own life was in danger. And I was terrified. I did not give a damn about his anxiety. I knew deep down that O'Reilly had nothing to do with it. But I needed a scapegoat. Like everyone else in this affair, no doubt.

But Ferguson O'Reilly did not let go so easily. In no time, my fiacre was racing under my nose and I found myself alone on the pier with the young policeman.

"But what happened to you, down there?'' He shouted ''This man could have pulled your arm away. You know that ? This man is completely mad. It took four men to stop him. Did you read the report in the morgue? Franklin told me we were here for your neighbor. What exactly are you looking for?

I narrowed my eyes and stared at him in silence. Was he laughing at me? I stepped forward, sniffing, with a cynical air. I was not in the mood to joke.

\- Oh! Common' Gus! We know each other for, what, six years? Don't tell me you're going to act as if this french child kidnapping had nothing to do with the body that we found nearby that same evening, huh? I know Franklin sent you to dissuade me. I know him. Those French couple, you sent them to me so I can find their kid. And you put yourself in big trouble, this time, because of it. That's it ?

O'Reilly lowered his head and staggered apologetically.

\- That ... it has nothing to do with Rivers. If you had seen the husband at the station ... He was ... like my father. The child ran away. I ... I did the same, you know ... I sent them to you to find the guy who stole their money ... that's all.

\- And I found this guy.

He looked doubtfully at me, his mouth half open, with an incredulous look.

''You ... you found him?'' O'Reilly asked.

I nodded my head gently, took out my cigarette case slowly, and quietly lit one of it and let the sergeant bathe in his impatience. I felt the acrid smoke fill my throat like the bitterness that took hold of me.

''Yes. '' I answered, slowly. ''5 or 6 days ago. Exactly in the same state as the man we have just seen, at the morgue. He was dead... well maybe 3 days prior of that. No more''

I took another puff, almost delighting at the turn of the discussion. I let O'Reilly do his calculations and understand the gravity of the situation. I saw him, out of the corner of my eye, pale under his freckles. Their suspect had been rotting at the Bellevue for about twenty days. I added a little drama to the whole thing.

''You should have seen the place, Gus. The guy who stole the Frenchman ... It could have been one of your clients at the time. Actually no. You would not be there, if it had been one of your clients. But you came out of it ... And there I have a kid to find and a murderer ghost that seems to have a lot of fun with all of that. You took the trouble, at least, to try to find someone to translate what that poor sicko, downstairs, had to say?

The sergeant lowered his eyes, completely distraught and shook his head. He stood motionless for a moment, looking at the river in front of him. Then his face twitched, little by little. The memory of the disillusioned teenager who sold his skin to survive and escape the blows of his old father and whom I had found, six years earlier, crossed my mind. I still remembered the exacerbated joy of the young man who had entered my office two years ago to tell me that he had entered the NYPD and could fulfill his dreams of justice. The brave policeman I had in front of me was probably beginning to realize that nothing had really changed since the time he had to sell himself to survive. He whispered softly.

"Franklin asked me to let you know that the case was over.'' He said '' And that even I will not be able to help you, no matter what happens. He said if the case went out in the newspapers or if there was a problem ... he would find a pretext to get rid of you. And that I was going to follow you in your shit. That's what he said. I'm sorry Riv's. I'm... Really ... really sorry.''

I smiled bitterly. O'Reilly had been promoted just three months ago. Doubtless one of the few Irishmen to have gone so far, in the right way. His whole community must doubtless have been just looking to him. He was almost their hero now. Franklin had made the right choice, sending him to watch me at the morgue. A very good choice.

''I understand, Gus. I understand.'' I said ''You will say hello to your old mother on my behalf, will you? She is a good woman who is not afraid of what others think of her, you know ''

This time he let me go in silence.

* * *

A telegram arrived a few days later.

An bored journalist - I suppose - from L'Époque had fallen on my message and informed me that the De Chagny affair had been conducted in the past by the investigating judge Michel Faure and his deputy, Commissioner Bernard-Marie Mifroid. The journalist added that Judge Faure had unfortunately been in Canada for a few years and had recently been joined by the Commissioner a few weeks ago to help him with a more difficult case until the spring. The journalist had even taken care to give me the address of the office of Faure, in the upper town of Quebec.

Monsieur Faure. My father kept quoting his work. He was only a young lawyer when he began to writing passionate latters to his French colleague in 1849. Faure, following the revolutions of 1848, had been interested in the proceedings of the Patriotes, to which my father had attended, and the manner in which their sentence had been exemplary, ten years earlier. The two men remained in contact until my father died. I still remembered those Christmas cards from Paris, which stood on our chimney. Completely bewildered, I dropped the telegram on my desk. It was enough for me to mention my father for Faure to confide in the De Chagny case. Without it, I run the risk of being completely ignored. What would Faure have to do with a small private detective of Lowest East Side? But he could not ignore the daughter of his great friend, Jacques Lariviere.

For a moment I tried to convince myself, petrified by the anguish. Faure was in Quebec City. Would he really take the time to communicate with my family if I gave him enough information to persuade him that it was me? I had three weeks left. Three weeks to find a ghost, lost in Manhattan. And if I did not find it, the consequences would be more disastrous than just a sad telegram from my past life.

A few drinks later, at last, I had the courage to put the name that I hated so much on my telegram and went to send it, completely drunk.

A week passed without news. Victoire could not be found. Even though I was in Brooklyn where the black community had found refuge, after the Riots Draft, thirty years ago, I could not find her. Then, I saw the men of Lyons and Driscolls appearing out of the corner of my eyes. They took a real pleasure in letting me know they were there. One of them mimicked the imaginary outline of the wider smile that Lyons was probably planning for me, on the other side of Essex Street. Once or twice, I felt like I was being followed, without being able to identify my assailant.

When finally I found a quidam in the street who spoke a Scandinavian language, I was told that Jansson had hanged himself in his cell.

I found my door opened one evening. My records had been searched with my correspondence and all my notes. My trinkets and my own photo had been moved. Emile's picture was placed prominently, on my desk, next to mine. Hell-Cat Maggie or Franklin? Was it Lyons or the Phantom of the Opera? It did not matter. In 15 days, I was a dead man.

I spent the rest of the night onervously looking at my door, my hand clenched on my iron fist.

* * *

The telegram I was expecting came three days later. But it did not come from Quebec. Oh God, no.

It was from the Grand Union's Hotel, across from the Grand Central. Commissionaire Mifroid, Judge Faure's deputy, had heard of my case and was eager to come to New York to meet with me. He said that Faure had spoken to him a great deal about my father and me, and he was anxious to meet that Mathilde Larivière of whom he had heard so much good. The appointment was fixed, in a chic restaurant on 5th Avenue, the next evening. I let the telegram fall to the ground, totally out of my mind and I slammed the door on teenager's face who brought it to me, without even looking at him.

I was fucked. Fucked. I wanted a new track ... No ... I NEED a track, only one. Otherwise, I was a dead man. But this one led me straight to the Bellevue Hospital, if I went to that appointment like this. I still remembered Polly, forced into her dress while walking into daylight. The bile rose to my throat. I glanced at the girl I had once been and who was taunting me in the photograph. I closed my eyes and finished the bottle of whiskey that I kept in reserve for difficult cases.

* * *

Maud waited under the porch of the orphanage, a large cardboard under her arm. Her smile was tense, impatient. Mine too. I casually threw my cigarette butt over my shoulder. She frowned reproachfully. I strode forward and stopped a few steps from her, with an embarrassed air. She broke the silence, as usual.

''I've had it for years.'' She said. '' I chose it just for you, at the time, when you went out the second time from the hospital. It's quite classy. Worthy of a lady. It'll be fine again ... you've lost weight ... A few adjustments and ... you'll be in the latest fashion, for sure. Don't... don't you want to try it? It's time for the mass, for boys, I have a little time and ...

I smiled awkwardly. I was in a hurry to get away, I hated that she would speak to me like that, while everyone could listen. I could already see one of the preceptors stare at me in the distance. A few curious boys turned towards us.

''It will fine, I assure you.'' I said.

''Are you sure ?'' She replied. ''Listen to me, Matty ... I've been thinking of it and ... if this appointment does not bring you what you want ... if you want to come by this Sunday ... I ... I talked about you to O'Neill ... It's getting old But ... But he's a good man and ... and he told me that the scar would not bother him, he ...''

I gave her a tight smile.

''Thank you Maud, it will not be necessary ...''

I was about to leave, nauseous, when she took my arm, insisting.

''You are still young, healthy and ... and ... you are still able to conceive another child. You can have your own family, Mathilde -''

I stopped, looking at the ground. I did not even try to free myself. I thought of all these boys, in the clichés. To that little boy Raoul and I had found, in this sordid cellar. To those little girls who had not had the golden childhood I had, despite everything. The abandoned child. I pressed the package against me. I remembered the child's first cry. But when Maud had approached me, I had turned my head away. My throat tightened and my voice sounded more harsh than usual.

''Maud?'' I asked ''Was it a boy or a girl?''

She opened her mouth, frowning, on the point of asking me what I wanted to talk about, no doubt. Then she gave me a sad smile, her eyes fogged with tears.

''He was a boy, darling. A sweet boy in full health. He ... He found a very good family. Good Christians. He is well treated, do not worry ...''

A boy. Like Emile. They would be almost the same age, a few months apart. The coincidence made me shiver with terror.

''How do they call him?''

My question embarrassed her, she shook her head, with a sincere air of sadness, retreating.

''Oh Matty ... '' She look at me, with pity. ''You know I can't tell you that kind of thing ... You must ... you have to forget it and you think about your future, it is-''

''Just his first name, Maud. And I promise you to come on a Sunday, one of these days. After I finished the case I'm working on. Promised. Just my child's first name, okay?''

She tried to refuse, and stopped short when I promised her. She pulled out a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes, completely moved.

''They called him Phil. Phillip, if you prefer ... He's a very well-educated little boy, I ... I see him every Sunday ... You ... he looks just like you, I think. The same green eyes ... A bit stubborn, like you ...''

I nodded my head and looked away. In the distance, the boys stood in front of the refectory, jostling each other. Phillip. The article I read in _l'Époque_ quoted this very first name. I smiled bitterly and crushed even more the cardboard under my arm.

''And Phil's parents ... I mean ... his adoptive parents, Did they got strange visitors? A man who asked too many questions about their offspring? Have not you seen any new faces on the last Sunday?

Maud stared at me with horror, as if she were seeing my real face for the first time. She drew back with fear, her hand on her face.

\- But ... How do you want me to know that? It is a church and ... we always welcome people ... they get tons of customers. They are but-

I stopped her with an aggressive and authoritarian gesture. If the Phantom did not already know, it was useless for others to know where to find my own offspring, right now. I didn't wanted to have anything to do with that child. God no. But I didn't wanted to have him dead neither because of me. No child deserved that. No matter what his father did to me.

\- Thank you, Maud. Phil must surely have a good old Christian godmother who lives outside of New York, right? You will tell his parents to send him there, a few weeks, okay? Right now. He is in danger. Thanks for the dress. I owe you. I will come, one Sunday, promised, when all will be settled.

And I turned away, leaving Maud in the horror of the monster that I had no doubt become.

* * *

 _What did you think of that chapter?_

 _By the way, I want deeply to thank **Mominator124** for the beta-reading of the Prologue to Chapter 4, in proper english. I didn't have time to adjust the story yet but it will soon be adjusted and more enjoyable to read for english natives! And thanks to Igenlode Wordsmith for their useful perspective! _


	16. Chapter XV : The broken doll

_Dear readers, I suspect that at this stage of reading you'd probably noticed that Ghosts was already drifting a bit from the kind of story that is often found on the fandom of the Phantom of the Opera. Ghosts is a thriller and not a romantic story. my story was intended to be more a work of original fiction than a fanfiction. After analyzing Leroux's work, to built the basis of my story, I consciously changed a few details. Notably the theater where the original story took place. I know that the fire of the theater of which I speak coincides very much with the end of the 2004 movie. But Ghosts is not inspired by the work of Webber or by the 2004 movie. While Leroux's work takes place at the Palais Garnier, Ghosts situates the drama between Christine, Raoul and "Érik" in the Théâtre Le Pelletier - the historical predecessor of the Palais Garnier - which burned on October 28, 1873, while the majestic theater Leroux tells us about was only a construction site that had been abandoned in time of war. The Palais Garnier opens its doors only two years later and it is already a little late for my narrative. I chose the Le Pelletier theater for two very simple reasons: I wanted Ghosts to be firmly anchored in reality, with truthful historical facts. Different narrative reasons explain my choice. I needed the premise of Ghosts to be in the early 1870s to coincide with the confusing dates given by Leroux in his book and to coincide, almost ten years later, with the opening of the Metropolitan Opera House. And I needed a major catastrophe that did not occur at the Palais Garnier until at least 20 years after its opening (the fall of the chandelier really did not occur until 1896)._

 _Because the fate of a murderer is always more confuse during a disaster where people lose their lives ..._

 _I will try to publish the next chapter by September 1st and I will update some previous chapters that had been gently beta-read by **Mominator124**._

 _Also, here's a drawing I've made from how I see the story's characters :_ _v iol onair e .d eviantart art 17799095-10154978916610664-4750909311439892315-N-674004281_

 _(Remove all spaces)_

 _Thank you for your feedback!_

* * *

''WHAT THE HELL?!''

Lily glared at me and closed her bathrobe covering even more her voluptuous breast and returned inside without a word, leaving the entrance of the theater gaping. The bouncer took a step forward and let me in, in spite of the early morning hour, for this kind of place. I went in, with my head bowed, red with shame, and heard Lily nervously order a _café-cognac_ from the bar. It was half-past ten in the morning. The old theater of the 8th avenue looked different under the light of day. Barry had in mind, since he had been sponsored by this Chicago philanthropist, to compete with the beautiful Broadway theaters. He had the moldings repainted, the walls repainted, red carpets were placed everywhere, and huge chandeliers were installed in the hall of the theater and above the stage. He even said he was going to put electricity on it one day. But despite all this glamour, the customers did not change. Already, out of the corner of my eye, following Lily in the maze of the scene, I could see from a distance the back of a man, half-collapsed on the bar with a bottle of bad whiskey in front of him. I did not recognize him right away, as it seem so out of place. Then a ray of light made his fair hair shine. I gasped in surprise. Monsieur de Chagny. I was about to go see him when Lily took me by the arm, with an impatient look.

''Fuck, leave him alone, Matt'', she whispered. ''He already has enough trouble like this, believe me. I will explain you. We do not have all day. If you think it will be enough to help you put on this dress to help you make yourself pretty and convincing in front of this little Parisian gentleman, tonight, you're wrong, _chérie_. Come on, come on!''

And she took me to her dressing-room. I gave one last look to the man at the bar and followed Lily to her box.

I carefully placed my cardboard on the old sofa and glanced at the large mirror in front of me. The mirror sent me the reflection of a poor emaciated and disfigured bum with two red scars that traced their cross sinuously on his left cheek. My short dark hair fell into my eyes and the dark circles beneath them eared my face.

I had been trying to put on that damn dress, an hour earlier. But I had only found this sinister individual, disguised as a freak, in the mirror. Not the great elegant lady Mifroid was waiting for, probably. I realized how stupid I had been. I had never really donned a dress all by myself in my life. I was a rich offspring, the daughter of a federal judge, after all. There had always been a maid to help me dress, to brush my hair, to put on make-up, to make of me what was expected of me at the time. A tie was easier to attach than a corset. And my short hair would not pass. I knew girls sometimes put on wigs ... and I counted on Lily's fairy fingers to make me acceptable. At least for one night.

Lily untied the ribbon from the cardboard box and unceremoniously pulled out the burgundy taffeta dress which Maud had carefully guarded for me, turning it in all directions with a disgusted look.

"She really think she'll get you married to one of her Irish oldster with such a shit? This is not the fashion for at least 10 years!''

I sighed and massaged my head, exasperated and grab the dress out of her hands before she decided to throw it into the fire.

''Listen Lily.'' I said ''This is ... not the time. None of your dresses will suit me anyway. I'm a lot taller than you and ... and I just need your help to put on this... this thing''

Lily glared at me, resigned. A bitter crease that I did not know appeared at the corner of her delicate lips and she lowered her head shaking her blond curls with a distressed look.

''Yes, it's true.'' She answered. ''You are a little tall, _girl_ , a little tall. Lily is always here to help when things get a bit shitty, right? For the rest, who cares, right? Lily just a silly girl, right, Matt? It's always when you're in the sh-''

"Perhaps I may offer some help, Miss Rivers?"

The sound of Christine de Chagny's voice caught me by surprise and I turned, feverish, to see her coming towards us, wrapped in a shawl of white wool, well dressed with her hair braided in a complex style. The color gradually returned, on her cheeks and her beautiful gray eyes shone. She smiled timidly. She was beautiful. I realized it was the first time I saw her smile. I tried to refuse her help, but Lily's face lit up and the young dancer threw herself around her neck, raising her head to kiss her cheek, as if they had always been friends. The scene left me panting and the dress slipped from my hands to fall on the floor. With infinite gentleness, the young woman freed herself from Lily's embrace and stepped towards me. She gently picked up the dress and straightened up elegantly to lay it on me. I suddenly realized that I had not really seen her stand up without being curled up on herself and that she stood in front of me now with an ease that I did not know. She did not need to raise her head to plant her big gray eyes in mine, she was almost the same size as me.

She tenderly smoothed the dress on my shoulders and smiled at me, with a somewhat perplexed air. She spoke, of the best English she could, so that Lily could understand us.

''Lily is right'', she said ''The dress does not go at all on you ... But ... But why a dress, Miss Rivers? This ... it's not you. Why ?''

I frowned. Her English was a bit hesitant, she stumbled on some words. She certainly did not have the same fluency as her husband for speaking in english. But she pronounced certain syllables otherwise than a Frenchwoman would have done. I knew. I thought of Chagny's warning about the fragility of his wife's mind. On the effect on her of the mere mention of the Phantom I was chasing. She seemed to be at her ease here. She seemed to have somewhat a bit forgotten the darkness that inhabited her. She seemed happy to find her art again, and to be useful, in spite of the misfortunes which befell her. I felt a wave of guilt rising to my throat. I saw Lily staring at me and opening her mouth to answer. I step forward to answer quicker than her.

''I …. I have to meet an old friend of my father who appeared to be in town. I ... I do not want to tarnish the image that this friend had of him ... That's all.''

She stopped for a minute and stare at me, with sadness.

''Of course, Miss Rivers'' she said. ''Your father ... I remember the frame, in your office ... Is was him? I ... I saw your reaction at that point. He was dear to you, was not he? I lost my father when I had just entered the Conservatory. My father was everything for me. I think I have never felt such great a void in my life, when he left, Mrs. Rivers. Except when I lost my son. Is that the same for you?

She sighed and gave me a sad smile, her eyes wet. My heart sank and I lowered my head, too shameful to look at her in the face. I would have liked to tell her that there was still hope for Emile. But I had lied to him like that before. I went to this rendez-vous with Mifroid to unveil the Chagny's past, without even consulting them, like a graves plunderer. I was trying to tell myself that it was the best thing to do, but in vain. She smiled more beautifully at my silence and carefully placed her fine hand on my shoulder. I wanted to step back, but I forced myself to stand still.

"Come, you have done so much for my husband and me already'' she said. ''Let me help you a bit in return, all right? I have this dress which is a little long for me that I bought in Paris, before leaving. It will fit you very well, with one or two adjustments, I think. She's in one of the boxes I brought back from the apartment. She's in my dressingroom. Let me go and get it. We must not disappoint this good friend of yours.''

It was not until she heard Christine go up to the floor where her dressingroom was that Lily walked towards me with a angry look.

''You think Maggie does not tell me anything, right?'' Lily asked. '''Say, it's for her child or to save your damn skin, you're doing all that, really? What the hell did you get to mingle the Whyos with all this, Matt? You think you're all alone in this? Christine and her husband received threats, did you know that?

I raised my head, alarmed.

''Threats? What kind of threats?''

Lily stared at me for a moment and let go, shrugging her shoulders.

''A guy started making bad jokes about Christine, during the representation, a week ago. Christine's husband jumped at his throat and the other took out a knife. The frenchman is lucky to just have a scratch. A few inches to the left and Christine would have been a widow. The girls believe it was a Whyos guy, who did that. They do that, they provoked the guy and then, they stab him to death. But Barry no longer wants Christine's husband to attend the performances. Barry says he's too possessive. He has a right to be there by day, when there is no one. But that's all. He can not even attend the show. But it is there, every morning, until 6 pm, he is there. You imagine?

She sighed with a dramatic air, as if it were a romantic act worthy of a Shakespearean play. But there was nothing romantic about it. Nothing but a wreck, sitting at the theater bar and a smelling of death. But Lily was not aware of the magnitude of all this. She looked annoyed.

"Not to mention the letters of threats that Christine received'', she continued at my own dismay ''Barry decided she would stay here, at the theater, for her safety. He gave her a dressing room on the higher floor, just for her, so she could be quiet. The girld and me, we thought she was going to act like a diva, that she was going to be impossible, you know. But no ... She's a very good girl, you know. Very nice, very sweet. A bit strange, but she tells us so beautiful stories from where she comes from! It's crazy ... We love her very much, already. And-''

"Did you see those letters?" I asked, a bit too loudly ''Did she told you anything about a strange, perhaps disfigured, guy who would have threatened her, a long time ago?

She stepped back, staring at me defensively. She made a weird look, looking at me from the side, as if she was looking at me for the first time.

''N-No'' She replied ... ''She did not tell us anything. Where do you get that from? There are only the letters. Weird messages sent in red ink'' she repeated, more nervous than ever. ''It totally freak them out. Really. They tore everything apart and they argued all night, outside the theater. Christine does not even look at her husband, since then. We saw them, these letters, the girls and me, but we understood nothing. Barry neither. That was in French. I recognized a word or two. There is only you, whom we know, who understands French. It's just you, Matt. Maisie even suggested that it was perhaps you who had sent all this''

Stunned, I stepped back a step and looked at Lily with horror.

''You are not serious Lily, right?'' I was freaked. ''There are tons of people who speak French in New York. And you know what situation I am in, right? You know I'm trying to help them''

''Of course I know'', she said, a bit too quickly. ''Listen, it's just gossip, okay. I mean ... I know you, Matt. I know. But Fuck! ... Put yourself in other people's shoes, for once. You guided them here. We received the first letter even before Barry announced Christine's first show. And, I mean ... this story with that black girl, the Whyos ... you're the one who had put your nose in all of this ... You know, Christine told me how you pushed her into your office. And what took you to threaten her husband with a fucking gun?''

She stopped and looked at me with a distressed look.

''And I know you _like_ her, okay?'', she continued. ''You deny it, but I know you enough to know how you feel about her. I know how you are, when you cling into someone and the girl no longer wants to know anything about you. You snoop everywhere to enter into the girl's life and you do not think. I know that you went gleaning to the fun fairs and that you asked a lot of questions about me three years ago. People have told me, Matty. I mean ... Christine ... She's nice, she took your defense. But ... I'm worry. I'm really worry about you.''

I remained silent and we stared at each other for a moment, Lily and me. I could not believe what I was hearing. The anguish creeped down to the depths of me and I felt doubt in her eyes. How did we get there? How had Lily come to look at me with this disappointment and this fear? I lowered and shook my head quickly, with a laugh that sounded false, like the barking of a jackal.

''Did you hear yourself, Lily?'' I laughed. ''It's Maggie, isn't it? Will you ever realize how dangerous this woman is? And how much she manipulates everyone? Do you really think she's an innocent old nanny? Do you really think she doesn't have a part in all of this? And you say I'm the jealous one? I...''

''I found! I found the dress!''

Lily and I turned, pale, towards the young opera singer. Her cheeks were red of excitement, as if she had just uncorked the stairs four by four to dress her new doll. A doll held up by invisible and sharp strings and which risked to precipitate her in the same abyss that it was falling into. This idea chilled me. The sounds and words became entangled as the two girls talked of verdigris, cream, prints, lace, corsets, wigs, petticoats and I don't know what. In fact,I had to turn away to catch the first abandoned bottle that trailed in a corner and sit down heavily on the sofa. The wine was rancid but I did not care anymore. With my eyes fixed on the hearth, the bottle in my hand, I tried not to listen to them. I thought of Chagny, downstairs, alone with his cheap bottle of whiskey, waiting for his wife to smile at him and remind him why he was sitting there all day. What if I just waited for him to be enough drunk to try to question him? But I remembered only too well our last meeting. Another burst of anger and Barry would ban him from his establishment forever. I knew Barry, since the time. He was like that. The Chagny's both needed the theater. Nobody would really attack them here. Interrogate Christine? She seemed so fragile, unstable. And I already saw how Lily was protecting her. The wrong question and I would lose the last support I had left. I was still trying to convince myself that this appointment with Mifroid was going to bring me the crucial information I needed to tell Maggie where the man from who the Whyos wanted revenge was. After ... After, I would deliver the child, I would return him to his mother. I would go to the bar, hand a piece of paper to Polly with the name of the guy and Maggie would take care of the rest. And I'd go back to life as before and I'd forget all that. No. In fact, I would find Victoire somewhere in Brooklyn and we would go to Chicago or Philadelphia and I would marry her. Here. I took a few more sips to convince me of that heroic fate.

I heard the two women talking in a low voice, casting worried glances at me. I heard the hot water poured into the bath. A little water had flowed and fell on the floor of the dressing room. I could hear the water flowing, drop by drop, in slow motion.

''We're ready'', Lily said. Undress yourself. The screen is there, in front of you.

I knew Lily was talking to me but I did not want to hear her. This whole thing was killing me. I tried to concentrate on the drop of water and the sound she was doing. Ploc ... ploc ... Ploc. I would have given everything to spend the evening just listening to that damn drop of water, far away from that room.

''Are you listening to me? Good god Matty! Where did you find that bottle?! It must have been there for over a week! We have everything we need now. The bath was prepared. Go wash yourself and put on this petticoat. Christine will help you with the corset.

I gave a weary look at Lily and nodded. The dancer looked at me with an angry grin and handed me the petticoat and a clean towel. I put down the empty bottle, lifted myself up painfully, and took the piece of fabric obediently and directed myself towards the basin. I cleaned my face, undressed, washed myself by rote in that scented water, and put on the petticoat behind the screen like a nice child. The fire crackled in the hearth, but I was still shivering. When I got out from the screen, the two young women stared at me with terrified eyes. Christine gave me a tight smile with a painful look. She timidly pointed my chest with a gesture of incomprehension. I lowered my eyes to contemplate the bandages that girded my chest firmly. Over the years, these had left their mark on my skin and bruises, of all colors, appeared, from here and there. I raised my head and folded my arms to hide them, lowering my head. I heard Christine mutter to Lily, in a mad tone.

''But-'' Christine said. ''But why does she do this to herself? Why-''

But Lily interrupted her and gesticulated impatiently in my direction.

''For Christ sake, Matt. Do you have to tighten these bandages so hard? Did you look at yourself? It's almost like you had fall from the stairs! It's not like you have much to hide, anyways, you're all skin and bones! ... It's an evening gown. _An evening gown_ , Matt. With the cleavage that goes with it. We're between _girls_ , holy crap. Do not be so prude, this is not the time. So take that shit off, will you?''

An appalling nausea runs through my body every time I think of this bloody dress. It must be alcohol, surely. You know me. But I only remember fragments of this infernal afternoon. Their looks of incomprehension on my bare chest. Their frightened whispers, in the back of the dressing room, as I tried to think of other things, finally left alone in the steaming and fragrant basin of Lily. To this impression more and more oppressive that my face would crack every time a layer of foundation was added on my skin, in the hope of erasing my scars. To the impression that my being was gradually disappearing in the darkness.

I still feel the young singer's cool hands behind my back, as she tied the corset. She was humming a French opera, apparently relieved to be able to speak her language in my presence. I was suffocating with heat. But I knew the routine too well. I bit my lip, mortified with shame that she sees me, half naked like this. I was feeling dizzy. I took an inspiration and whispered softly.

''Lily told me about the threats.'' I said. ''I- You have to leave New York. Tomorrow, understood?''

She stopped singing and smoothed the fabric over my waist.

"My husband also begs me to leave the city, even without him." She answered. ''He says it's for my good, you know? But I am tired that everyone decides everything in my place. As if I was not aware what is happening around me. As if I did not really there. Like I was crazy. I am not crazy. You believe me, do not you? I will not leave New York without taking my son with me. Your devotion touches me, more than you think. I will pay your fees ... I know ... I know it's not easy for you. I will give you a hundredfold all the efforts you have made for me and my son. I give you my word, Mathilde.''

I raised my head abruptly, shocked, and our eyes met in the mirror. Christine's eyes widened and she held a hand to her face, looking at me in a frightened manner.

''I- I'm so sorry. Lily always calls you like that, when she talks about you ... I did not want to-''

I closed my eyes for a moment and shook my head, trying to hide the distress that assailed me. I slowly articulated, word by word.

"But you've paid me, Madame de Chagny." I said. ''You sent your maid, Victoire, to give me the money to find your son, right? Victoire was send on your behalf. Tell me it's true.''

I turned to her, breathing short, stifled by the corset half tied. And I stared at her, with a remains of hope. But there was only a void in her beautiful sad eyes. We both knew the answer. I turned my head away. I had tried to imagine a thousand explanations to why Victoire would have hidden her interest in a man who had been found dead at the foot of the MET and who had in his possession a fake passport for Émile de Chagny. I would have been ready to swallow all sorts of nonsense, to continue believing in her innocence. But she had lied to me from the start. I had fell into her trap, like an idiot. I lowered my head so that my customer did not see my rictus of rage but when I raised my head, she looked at me, livid, her lips pinched. The fine blue veins protruded, on her magnificent white neck and her big gray eyes darting, filled with resignation and disappointment. Then she turned to Lily who was preparing for her own staging without paying attention to us. Time was flying on.

I turned like a doll towards the mirror while the expert hands of the young woman again grabbed the laces of my corset in a methodical way, in silence. Each rap gave me a gasp of pain. I thought for a moment that I could not breathe. But Christine's thin hands embraced my shoulders and held me back as I felt I was going to lose conscience. I felt her warm breath, on my neck and her voice, as scattered through the mirror bring me back to earth. Her cool, sweet hand slipped into mine. I felt her long fingers touch the ring that Victoire had given me. She glanced at me in surprise and raised my hand to her face, her eyes narrowing. She gently stroke a scratch, on the tarnished gold of the ring and gently raised her head to me, with a dreamy half-smile.

''May I?'' She asked.

I pulled the ring out of my finger, a little confused, and handed it to her. She turned it and rolled it in her hand to look inside. Then, with a satisfied smile, she took my hand and placed it respectfully in my palm and gently closed my fingers on it.

''I know you'll find him'', she said. ''I believe in you. Come on! All we have to do is put on that dress. You will be resplendent tonight and your evening will be a success, I promise you.''

And as the evening fell gradually, they turned me, with a look of delight, towards the room's huge mirror. What would probably have been a pretty girl, without these scars, faced me. Dressed in a splendid satin-gray satin dress and ivory lace, wearing an elegant feathered hat under thick brown curls, she looked at me, with a stance as frightened as mine. The scars, beneath the multiple layers of make-up, were nothing but discreet blisters on her left cheek. The desperate grin that her mouth showed, covered with red, made me ashamed. I felt like I was sitting in front of a mime, a circus beast. A grotesque parody of all that I had fled for years. My head was spinning and I felt the rancid bile burning my throat. I felt the sweat on my forehead and a flush of heat gave me nausea. I closed my eyes as the room began to spin around me.

''Take that off. Right now'', I whispered

Lily glared at me in the mirror and Christine turned pale and took a step forward to cheer me up.

"You are magnificent, Miss Rivers.", she said. ''I assure you that you will be well perceived. All the ladies present will be dressed up like you ... I know that we can still see your scars but there's nothing to be ashamed of-''

I took off the hat and the wig with a panting breath, and I begun to fight on the clasp of the dress, with an unnamed panic. The room was getting darker, as if I was still in this cold cave I've spent my life escaping. I heard the fabric rip and Lily's shrill voice burst into the room

''But what are you doing?! We spent hours dressing you up and making you presentable for this damn Parisian. You're not taking it off, _girl_! If other women can wear a dress, so do you! Your fucking appointment is in two hours!''

I wanted to convince myself once again that all this was necessary. But I did not succeed. This miserable girl, who was waiting, anxious, for what I decided in her place what we were going to do with her, who was waiting that I bang her with all my strength, through the mirror ... It was more than I could bare. I was ready to return to the Bellevue Hospital rather than to see this ghost in front of me. Mathilde Larivière no longer existed. This girl had been dead for 8 years. Her corpse, lacerated and naked, had been abandoned in a cemetery in the middle of February. Why was she haunting me in this mirror?

I was going to throw my fist in the mirror when I realized, horrified, what I was doing. _He knows you and you have entered in his little games._ I stepped back, staring at my reflection, terrified. Was it possible that this _Phantom_ planned all this? He knew I had given birth to a child. At least he supposed it. He knew my dead name. A simple search could have taken him to my father. After all, he had been an important personnality. Faure had been in Quebec for many years, now. Mifroid was stuck in North America since December, no doubt, because of the winter. These things were known. Gossip papers loved it. These two gentlemen had been of some importance in that tragedy, nine years ago, and it was _obvious_ that I was going to ask them for help. What if _all this_ had been planned in advance? Even this _fucking_ corset? And if…. I shook my head incredulously. No. No. He would not go that far. Wasn't he? This _man_ was _totally mad_.

Panting, I perceived that I was turning in the little box like a ferocious beast in its cage, the torn dress falling softly on the shoulder. I saw fear in the eyes of the young women, in front of me. They looked at me as if I was going to hurt them. I rubbed my eyes and babbled with excuses.

\- I ... I'm sorry. I can not ... This ... It's not me.

Lily stepped forward, her arms around her body and looked at me with a angry look.

\- I do not know what _game_ you're playing, okay? But look at yourself. Look, Matt-

I burst into anger. This punch I reserved for the mirror poured over Lily, who had nothing to do with it.

\- Stop calling me like that, bitch ! You do not understand? I'm not your _girl_. I've never been a woman. Screw all of you!

And I went out in a whirlwind, without even putting on my jacket.

I wandered about half an hour in the city, empty-headed, before resigning myself to return home. My boots hurt and a heel ended up breaking. I felt fragile. I felt the perverse looks lingering on my curves. I had the impression that one or two men were following me, offering me things that made me sick. Never had I felt so distressed, so vulnerable. I hated that. The passers-by looked at me with terror and a policeman hailed me in the distance. I thought I heard the word "transvestite" once or twice. When I got home, the door was ajar, again. The sheets and books littered the ground. My apartment had been searched. Someone wanted to know where my research was on the murderer of Mazzola, I was sure. I thought, not without irony, that the Phantom of the Opera would have done it with a little more finesse. It must have been the Whyos.

There was a bitter smile on my face. They would not find anything. My appointment was ruined. I had lost my last chance to get a a piece of the puzzle. All that I had left to do was to wait for the Whyos and to hope to hurt one or two of them before they kill me. I stepped over the sheets and books and went to my bed and plunged my hand into the rip of the mattress. The revolver which I bought at a high price, after Victoire had fled with mine, was still there. I took it out of his hiding-place with the ammunitions, and loaded the barrel. I was about to stand up when the window-pane gave me a reflection of myself. The make-up and the mascara had run out and blackened my face, as if my orbits had sunk into my skull. The lipstick barred my mouth in such a grotesque manner that my lips seemed twisted on one side like a creature of a bad dreadful penny. I shivered. I really looked like a monster.

I was about to clean myself when I heard the door of my apartment squeak discreetly and the paper crumple underneath. As silently as possible, I grabbed my gun and rolled out of the bedroom, the weapon pointing at the intruder and the finger on the trigger. The feathers of the opulent hat, which an hour before was sitting on my head, shuddered and Christine's livid face turned to look, without a word, at the cannon that was pointed at her. I lowered the gun and noticed, mortified, that she had the letter of the Phantom and Emile's picture in her hand. We stared at each other for a moment in silence.

She took a step towards me and showed me the photograph, with an eerie calm.

''I'd recognize his writing among a thousand ones'', she whispered. ''He started manipulating you too, did he? He's like that, you know. Like a child who enjoys pulling the strings of a puppet until it no longer moves, completely broken. When he has chosen his prey, he does not let go. The blackmail letters, the objects that move when your back is turned, the whispers when there is nobody there and the threats ... I knew he would come to you when you came back to us to resume the investigation. I knew it. You look too much like him. You make me think of him.''

She took an inspiration and gently placed the photograph on my desk as well as the heavy bag she had bring and turned to me. I saw the anger inflaming her big gray eyes and her graceful shoulders tremble, under the grip of emotion.

''Lily told me the truth about this appointment.'', she continued. ''That you had write to Mifroid to come help you in New York. To find out what really happened nine years ago. Would not I have been able to tell you myself, Miss Rivers? Am I not his victim? Is my experience not worth something? Why did you hide this photograph from me? Why did you hide from me that you knew my son was alive?

I passed a hand over my face, spreading the mascara more on my cheeks and struggled to explain myself.

"Your husband'' I said, pitifully. ''He was afraid it might make you sick" He wanted to protect you, Christine.''

A bitter grin appeared on her beautiful face and her eyes sparkled with anger.

''To Protect _me_?'', she said. ''If Raoul had wanted to protect me, Miss Rivers, he would not have accepted this offer and he would not have exiled us to this unknown city, without any resources. He would not have squandered all that money to drink. If he had wanted to protect me, he would not have abandoned me, pregnant, facing the public and facing those monsters, alone, in the darkness, while he was doing I don't know what, in Africa. He would not have left me alone in this burning theater with all the corpses that littered the ground around me as I tried desperately to find him among the ruins. We had to flee, after the performance, did you know? Flee, far, to the north. But Raoul was not there. And it was _him_ who found me instead and led me into the depths of the Catacombs.''

Her voice died away and I saw tears appear in the corner of her eyes. She wiped discreetly one with her gloved hand. I was speechless. I did not understand everything. I could scarcely imagine the extent of the drama and the desolation that this being had left in his path. I wanted to tell Christine how much her husband seemed to love her and cherish her and that there must have been an explanation for Raoul's actions. But I withdrew. I knew nothing of them, but what Christine revealed to me seemed to me atrociously familiar.

I wanted to take a step to comfort her, as she had wanted to do with me a few hours earlier, but she stopped me with a brusque gesture, her head lowered to hide her tears.

''You know'', she said. ''I thought you were different. That you would understand that a woman can be free and think for herself. I suppose that was what made you decide to live like a man. To be their equal and be able to be the only mistress of your life. I even thought we might have things in common, you and I.''

She raised her head and stared at mine. Something in her softened and she gave me a sad smile.

"I thought you had come back generously.'' She said. ''Because you can not bear to give up on a child. Lily finally confessed to me that this whole affair terribly distressed you. Something about your past, she said. That there were people who wanted to harm you because of us and that you still wanted our good for Raoul, Emile and you. You should have come to see me la long time ago, you know. I would at least have told you that the feminine charm is not what interests Mifroid and that all this masquerade was useless. And I would have warned you, too. That _commissaire_ is ready to crush you to lay his hands on Raoul. I never knew why. But he may confide in you things that have been hidden from me, I do not know.''

She stopped for a moment and her gray eyes peered at me for a moment, almost with tenderness. I realized that I still held my gun and put it on the desk and looked shamefully at my hands, smeared by makeup and my eyes rested on the ring. I remembered the absurd answer of Victoire, about its provenance. Had she not said that the money came from the sale of her mistress's jewels? I withdrew it and gently handed it to the young woman.

\- I ... I think it's yours, Christine.

She nodded gravely and continued to look at me without moving.

" _He_ gave it to me." She said. '' _He_ wanted me to wear it to prove my loyalty, otherwise ... But it does not matter now. Erik had begun his revenge and will not stop until we are all at his mercy. This ring is yours now, it may lead you to him, who knows.''

''Erik? It's that his name? Erik who? I need to know who he is, Christine. I need to know what happened that evening of October. It is necessary…

She shook her head and leaned over to search the heavy bag she had brought.

''Not now. We're out of time. We have to clean this mess on your face and you have to dress. I sing the day after tomorrow. _La Juive_ , you know? Come to see me before the representation, while I dress up, will you? We would be able to have a chat about Erik and about each other.

She stood up and fixed her gaze firmly in mine and handed me a top hat.

"You're going to be late, Mister Rivers."


	17. Le Commissaire Mifroid, part I

_A/N: I'm extremely sorry for being so late. This is a very hard chapter to write as it contains a lot of clues and a lot of canon stuff... At the same time, it's a chapter with no action at all and it is where you truly see that the story isn't meant to stick with the canon. Since I'm only halfway and had already written almost 5000 words, I decided to cut this chapter in half. Don't worry, the other half is slowly but surely on its way._

* * *

The cab stopped under the streetlight at the corner of Madison Square, just in front of the restaurant. The coachman grimly pocketed the ten cents that I offered him while grumbling against the mad race I had asked of him. He left in the night. The cold air stung my eyes and the smoke I was expelling was denser than ever. I pulled nervously on my cigarette looking at the park in front of me. I was barely twenty minutes late; a real blessing, given the circumstances. I watched the illuminated facade of the building across the street with a worried look. Mifroid must have begun to get impatient at his table and think about leaving. But he must have known that the lady he was waiting for would not arrive in advance. After all, single women were never welcome in this type of institution.

I took a few steps in the park, out of sight; took off my top hat to check if my hair was still in place, and wiped my forehead with a last whiff of nausea. The tailcoat that I was wearing was a little big for me, especially at the shoulders but I did not care. It was better to be late. The commissaire would be sitting at his table, surrounded by all those high society people, and would not make a scandal. Not yet, in any case. Certainly, he was very likely to not be talkative but it did not change much, at this point. I was going back to the restaurant when I realized that I had no idea what Mifroid looked like. Fool as was, I didn't ask Christine to describe him. Will it really Commissioner Mifroid that I will have in front of me I casually tossed my cigarette butt, readjusted my tie, and armed myself with courage, looking at the front of Delmonico's. I was going out of the shadows when I heard the snow squeak behind me.

"Another cigarette, maybe?"

I jumped and stepped aside, ready to attack the guy who had sprung out of nowhere and slam my fist in his face. The man raised a hand as a peace sign and tentatively handed me an insistent, open golden case, filled with rolled cigarettes, with an embarrassed smile.

"I'm sorry. It's not an American brand. But they are good quality, believe me.

I cast a sceptical glance at the intruder, who continued to smile. He had a strong accent. The wealthy European people swarmed in the upscale neighborhoods of New York, like flies in the sun and Delmonico's was their favorite restaurant. In the insistent and embarrassed manner in which he brandished this damn case under my nose, I already knew. A tourist in need of thrills, probably. It happened to me once or twice. I looked a lot younger than I really was and the few men who took the time to linger on my face probably saw things I dared not even think about. I sighed and took two cigarettes nonchalantly. I slipped one behind the ear, leaned the other towards the stretched match that lit up my scars for a moment and inhaled greedily. I gave him the same silly smile. He took a puff himself and gave me an apologetic gesture. He continued to monologue, in his broken English, still smiling. "You should not smoke so much, young man, it's messing up your voice."

He grimaced and showed me the restaurant in the distance, with a distressed look and took another step towards me with a familiarity that didn't please me. "I saw you there, under the streetlights and ... and I said to myself "You can not leave this brave young man there, all alone, in the dark" Listen ... listen ... I had an appointment with this pretty American lady but ... she failed me, you see. She didn't show up. I was told that it was one of the best restaurants You can not really go alone there. I mean ... we ... I was pushed back to the door. It would be a shame to miss such an opportunity. I ... a nice dinner would do you some good, right? Come on, it's on me.''

Would he then beg me to come and sip a cognac in his hotel room afterwards? I recognized that kind of guy. I did not have anything special against them. Some were even good fellows. But O'Reilly's case had left me with a bitter taste for male prostitution. I winced in my turn and shrugged, with a falsely sorry pout. "I beg your pardon, sir. I have an appointment and I'm already very late, sir."

I was still going to thank the man for giving me those cigarettes when a dangerous light began to dance in his eyes. "Please. There is no need to be sorry, Mademoiselle Larivière."

The cigarette slipped out of my hands and I remained a second froze on the spot, unable to move or articulate. I pestered silently against myself for having gone so far into the darkness of the park. The man in front of me had switched to French and used my old name as a mere formality. But, who was this man? My hand slipped slowly to the pocket of my coat to caress my American fist, under the stoic gaze of the man who watched every of my moves as if it was a little joke. "I'm such a fool! I did not even introduce myself! Bernard-Marie Mifroid, Police Commissioner of the 9th arrondissement of Paris. Nice to finally meet you, Mademoiselle."

As I remained silent, he tilted his head slightly to better observe me. "You know, Faure told me about these ... little eccentricities that were yours. It seems that your father had always dreamed of a son to follow in his footsteps and that he turned into you a real little policeman. I'm amazed really."

The hand still clutching the metal of the weapon, I looked at the man in front of me who taunted me, with his broad smile. I was expecting a police officer to come out of nowhere to take me to Bellevue Hospital.

I heard him sniffle and saw him take out a handkerchief and wipe his nose, carefully. Then he folded it gently and put it back in his pocket. "So when I saw this…well… this young man, with a coat too big for him to get off a cab ... I immediately thought of you. It is not our job, my dear, to see beyond the little lies of life? I'm starting to have a rumbling stomach. Not you?"

When we entered Delmonico's, the waiter stared at us, looking a little upset. I felt his eyes linger on my cheek. No doubt Mifroid said was true. Being alone, someone had invented an excuse to repress him at the door, even if a reservation was made. And now he was coming with a scarred man to keep him company. I discovered, with horror, that the reservation was done under my name, Matt Rivers. I turned toward Mifroid but he simply shrugged. Was this another of his little jokes? I quickly took off my white gloves before someone noticed that they were much too big for me and threw them carelessly into my top hat as I handed it to the waiter.

Without words, he guided us to our table, in the middle of the room.

Mifroid sat down first in the seat the servant was pulling between the exit door and me. I pulled my seat myself and examined the scene. Scatting chandeliers, sumptuous mahogany moldings and immaculate white tablecloths surrounded us. Not to mention the customers around us dressed in their evening clothes. It had been an eternity since I had not set foot in an expensive restaurant. A few seconds were enough for me to remember what utensils went for what use and I gave a small sigh of relief.

When I looked up, Mifroid had been watching me for a while. I returned the favor. For someone who should have been in the late forties, he was very handsome. I saw from here and there some ladies his French uniform on American soil? I was fully aware of the full scope of his costume and the authority that was being relied upon. And it was me at this table who was the intruder. He let me examine it without blinking and smiled again.

"I must confess that you have created a pretty little mess in Faure's office with this telegram, my dear. This good old judge had no news of your family for eight years and now you are reappear in New York, with Chagny and Miss Christine Daaé, asking about this Phantom of the Opera's case ! I didn't see anything so fabulous in a long while!

He laughed briefly, took a sip of water and then silently watched the people around us. He slowly rested his glass on the tablecloth and gave me a embarrassed look. I saw him lean towards me, lowering his voice. He murmured hesitantly.

"I'm really worry for that good old Raoul, you know? I knew he had money problems but ... He left like that, on a gust of wind. As soon as I knew that the Baroness of Castelot-Barbezac had been stolen and that de Chagny was in America, with his dear wife and this poor kid ... I wrote to Faure and I was in Canada two weeks later. After all, I knew that I would eventually hear from him at one point or another, that he would certainly end up writing to me. After all these years ... he owes me that, right? So, how is he? How's Raoul, tell me?"

If Christine has not warned me about him, I would have certainly fall into Mifroid's trap. He looked at me with those embarrassed, uncomfortable and vaguely worried eyes. An excellent comedian, really. But after his little joke in the park, he must have known that I would not be fooled. I thought of Raoul, sitting at the theater's bar and at his mad look on the threshold of his home, when he pointed the gun at me. The only answer I could give Mifroid was a tense smile.

He gave me a half-smile and took the knife in front of him to inspect it thoroughly, before putting it back on the table. "I suppose that if everything was all right for him, you wouldn't have sent this telegram. Am I wrong? Has our dear Ghost have reappeared here?''

Of course Mifroid was going to ask such a question. He had not made that trip to New York just to give me the information I wanted. Was he bored that much in Quebec? Was De Chagny were so important to him as to cross the Atlantic and spend a winter in the snow, far from the cozy temperature and social class of Paris? All I knew was what Madame de Chagny had told me. That Mifroid seemed to have set his sights on the Phantom affair. Why? Even Christine did not seem to know it. My father had already told me about former police officers obsessed with certain cases, but Mifroid did not look like one of those madmen. And he had neither the innocence nor the nobility of O'Reilly. I could not know what he really wanted. It was better to give him as little information as possible about the couple and keep all my cards in hand. I leaned towards him, in the tone of confidence. "I'm sorry for your Baroness, really. A Chicago magnate interested in the talent of Madame de Chagny hired me to verify the responsibility of her husband, in this case of fraud. Nothing to fear, believe me. But I discovered this story of Opera Ghost and this murder story and I wanted to be clear with my customer. I need to know what really happened before recommending Madame de Chagny to my client. That's why I wrote you.

My excuse was certainly not worth a trip to New York but this guy and his introduction did not come back to me. Who knows? I was not going to tell him everything. But I needed all the information he could provide me. I gave him a sorry pout. He replied with an enigmatic smile. He grimaced and shrugged, much to my relief.

I gave him a wink to relax the atmosphere. I took my napkin and folded it on my lap like a nice child. He kept looking at me and seeing that I had noticed he took his glass of water, looked for the waiter and hailed him. Then he turned to me, smiling, with an embarrassed air. "It's a funny story, Mathilde. Can I call you Mathilde? I would find it very difficult to call you otherwise."

Cheeks burning with shame, I was going to answer him not to call me that when he cleared his throat and made an impatient sign towards the waiter. He gave me another pout and looked at the splendid room and its clients with a dreamy grin. "A strange case, that one on the Phantom of the Opera. The only case I have never truly resolved. You read the newspapers, as I understand it.

I gave him a brief summary of what I knew. The fire, Christine kidnapping and the body of Philippe de Chagny, found two days later. I did not know more. He nodded and motioned a second time to the waiter who finally brought us the card. The waiter gave me a suspicious look before responding to another client. I quickly glanced at the menu. Deer cutlets, really? It has been years that I had not eaten red meat, let alone game, which I loved yet. Too expensive. I was still nauseated but at the price that would cost me this respaurant meal, I could not miss these damn cutlets. I threw the menu aside and returned to the one I had in front of me. He put the card down and crossed his hands in front of him.

"You see, my dear, it was a strange time, when all that happened. The Prussian war had just finished and we still had all those corpses to pick up and these ruins to rebuild. Prussia had left its mark, not to mention the after-effects of the last revolutions ... Palais Garnier was supposed to be finished after the end of the war. Before that, it was just a sketch, a hard-hitting foundation built over unstable and marshy ground. The foundations and their undergrounds even served as a shelter for soldiers of different factions. Not to mention the Catacombs below. It was not pretty at the time. But they still went on building this opera, you know. Despite everything that happened in the days following the Pelletier's fire. If you knew what we had found below..."

He shook his head in distress and remain silent for a long moment, inspecting the wine list, then placing the cardboard on the tablecloth and staring at me with his dark eyes. "Not that I preferred the Pelletier. We were squeezed there, there were not enough place to move or properly sit down. And the establishment had lost its image, if I may say so. The former owners, overburdened with debt, fled in Frankfurt and the new owners had no experience in running such an organization. The staff was on edge and overwhelming rivalries erupted... Unexplained incidents began to occur so … you know how artists are, right? They invented such absurd stories-"

"What kind of incidents, Commissaire?" I asked.

Mifroid raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips, giving me a weird look.

"Valuable items, money, that disappeared, sets that crashed on the stage during rehearsals. A machinist claimed to have seen a black shadow sneak into the backstage and everyone began to talk about that ghostly, glowing eyes skeleton that haunted the Opera House.

The Commissioner happily burst out laughing and handed the menu to the waiter and ordered an expensive bottle. The man, a tall black colossus who introduced himself as Lewis, bowed respectfully and brought us the bottle. He poured a little wine into Mifroid's glass but, to my own dismay, he pushed the glass towards me, motioning me to taste it. The rancid taste of the stale wine from Lily's lodge came back to my mind, nausea rose to my throat and sweat began to bead on my forehead. I was hot. I stood still watching my glass, uncertain. The waiter kept looking at me and Mifroid put his chin on his crossed hands and deliberately examined my scar. I dipped the lip in the glass and made a brief nod of approval to the waiter who ran away to serve other customers, not without staring me one last time. The various appetizers were served and Mifroid ate in silence.

I only turned the spoon in my soup. I felt like I was going around in circles. I was already fed up and the main courses had not even been ordered yet. How long had I not frequented that damn bourgeois society that exasperated me? In the world where I lived now, everything was settled with a good punch in the face. But I needed to know what had happened at Le Pelletier. Perhaps I would find there a clue to the Erik of whom Christine was speaking and who came back from beyond the grave nine years later to punish the Chagny? A sigh of exasperation escaped me. "And nobody found this guy who was hiding behind the scene and who caused these accidents? Someone had to investigate, right?"

He wiped his mouth thoroughly, taking all his time, looked up at me and his smile widened. Had he just noticed my exasperation and discomfort? "No ", he anwered. "No one has investigated the words of Joseph Buquet. He was a drunkard and a voyeur. He was always drunk or nearly so, and when he was not drinking, he was spending the rest of his time spying on ballerinas and other teenage girls. Many complained of inappropriate touching and one of them was even abused. We do not know any more, the girl had withdrawn her complaint and the directors did not even note the victim's name down. These accidents on stage were due to the fellow's negligence, that's all."

He paused and theatrically took a sip of wine.

"He has committed suicide anyways. He was found hanged-"

I raised my head from my bowl and let my spoon fall noisily. "Hanged? Are you sure it was a suicide, Commissaire?"

Mifroid lifted his glass in front of his face and examined it for a while. I had the impression that he was watching me through the red liquid. "Of course Mathilde." He exaggerated the last syllable while the waiter was picking up our plates. "He has been found through stage sets in the basement of the theater. There was even a farewell note. Hanged with a piano string that was found only a few days later because of that theater mess."

I bit my lips. The lacerations I had seen at Mazzola and the Persian's neck came back to my mind. Iron wire. My throat was dry. I shook my head and finally took a sip of wine. Everything tasted like ashes. I closed my eyes and pressed the glass against my forehead. Joseph Buquet. Was that where the killings started? I heard the commissaire clear his throat. "Have I came that far for a drunkard's suicide?"

He leaned over to me and put his hand on mine. Some heads turned toward us as shame set upon me. I wanted to withdraw my hand but his grip tightened, subtly, while he continued to smile at me. "I'm not here for Joseph Buquet. I'm here to close the case of the disappearance of pretty girl, permanently damaged afterwards and her scoundrel of husband. Of course, it remains to know which case you prefer to discuss tonight. Christine Daaé's case or yours, Madame ... Langevin?"

He smiles to me again. But there was nothing kind in his face. I recognized the malevolent spark I saw in his eyes. I had seen it once, just before the knife sank into my cheek. I pulled my hand so hard that my elbow hit my glass, which crashed to the ground. The waiter came and quickly replace it, staring at my scar once again. I wanted to get up but the policeman burst out laughing again.

"As I told you earlier, as soon as I had your missive, Mathilde, I did some research. You are such problematic and dirty case really. A girl so pretty and smart decked out with such terrible inclinations. Cross-dressing, sapphism, You have even been expelled from the convent. Not to mention your dating with the separatists. A real mess. But your father adored you and everyone turned a blind eye because of your father's status, right? So as soon as your family learned that your father was dying ... You were forced to marry the first suitor, to avoid scandal. Daniel Langevin, the family secretary. A young guy as brilliant as you, really, with a nice career in front of him.

He took another sip of wine as if everything was fine. For a moment, the chandeliers dimmed, the room darkened and the murmur of people around us stopped. I knew the waiter picked up the broken glass right next to me but I could not see him anymore. The walls came closer. I could only hear the voice of Mifroid, who was telling my own story, laughing.

"What surprises me most in all this is that a lawyer of this caliber has been so emotional about you. What did he expect, for God's sake, when he accepted to marry you? A docile woman, submissive and respectful of her conjugal duties? It was too much to ask you ... I was given access to the report, you know. He drugged you and dragged you to the cemetery, on your father's grave, where he broke three of your ribs, disfigured you with a knife and abandoned you there like a dog, in full blizzard. Jealousy, it seems. What anfool. The wedding had not even been consumed before that night at the cemetery, according to the doctor's report, your husband could have asked for a divorce. To throw away his career like that, what a pity."

Mifroid smiled "He still pleaded his life at trial, huh? To have called one of your ex lovers as witness, it takes a lot of nerves! And this talk about his love for you and how much he wanted to save you from yourself and how much it made him mad. He escaped the hanging and was sentenced to seven years in prison. Seven years. It's better than swinging in the air, right? The federal government refused your own divorce petition and you and your unborn child were placed under the care of your brother-in-law, while waiting for your dear husband's release. This guy is a real genius, despite everything. A few weeks later, we found your scarf in the muddy waters of the Lachine Canal. Everyone taught you jumped into the water with some rocks in your pockets, eight years ago. And now you send a telegram from New York on the most sinister affair of all Paris!"

He leaned foward on the table, staring at my face. "There is only one detail that disturb me, in that story. The medical report spoke only of a large wound, from the lip to the ear. Not the one who's bulging on your cheek. Tell me, what effect does it make, to have to cut your own face to hide, Mathilde?"

I stood up to get off but I saw several customers turn to us. Our waiter was whispering to the butler's ear at the entrance to the restaurant. Mifroid winked at me and filled my glass, pushing it in my direction. I saw the waiter head solemnly to our table. I was fucked. Mifroid continued to smile.

"I will keep quiet, and I will take my place on this chair if I were you, Mathilde. You cannot leave now! Not in the middle of the story! Come on!

The server, steeper than ever, came to take our order for the main course. Before I had time to say anything, Mifroid had ordered the Dijon-style poults, with a condescending wink and veal chops, a cigar, for himself as well as another bottle of wine. The waiter glanced at me sideways and disappeared with our order. I sit down, boiling with rage. I would have given anything to stab his cheek with one of those silver forks for him to feel the effect it was, to feel the metal into one's face. But he was right, it was not just me in this story. As if he had read in my mind, he gave me a half-smile. "And if we started being honest, one to the other, what do you think, Mathilde?"

I emptied my glass in one gulp and poured another, to the brim. Mifroid remained silent as I lit a cigarette and explained, reluctantly, the real circumstances of my meeting with the Chagny and the letter I had received from the so-called Phantom of the Opera. I briefly summarized the disappearance of the child, my find at Mazzola and my confrontation with the Vicomte omitting all the other details. Did the policeman really need to know that another body had been found and that I had been fucked by the maid? Satisfied, he finally put his cigar in the ashtray and retreated into his chair, giving me a sorry look. "And you believe him?! You believe de Chagny?! Did your father not teach you anything? That a good policeman does not let himself be swayed by feelings? For God's name, Mathilde, your dear husband's plea was not enough for you?"

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Grinding my teeth, I wanted to defend my judgment but he stopped me, shook his head and emptied his glass. "You did not see him at the trial when he was told of the condition of the twelve victims of the fire and the state in which his brother was found in the foundations of the Palais Garnier. No Mathilde. Raoul de Chagny killed this kid, as he killed his own brother."

He drew a puff from his cigar and crushed it in the ashtray, half-consumed. He had lost his cheeky smile and watched people dine with gloom. "The tension between the two brothers was no secret in Paris. Admittedly, the new Count did everything he could for his young half-brother -

I frowned. "Half-brother?"

Mifroid gave me a hard look and answered in a spitting tone. "I am not sitting at this table to give you a genealogy course of the French aristocracy, my dear. The old Count has married twice. Philippe-Georges-Marie was born of a first union with Eleonore de Girval, a baron's daughter. A strong woman who knew how to handle business. The Old Man left everything to ruin, when she died. Raoul was born twenty years later of another union, with the granddaughter of the Duke of Orleans, a fragile and blonde young creature who died in childbirth."

He sighed. "The principal subjects of the young Vicomte's talk were boating, the sea, and the fact that he was sure his elder brother stoled his own title since he was a Duke's great grand-son and Philippe was from a lesser lineage than him. What a little fool, really! He was totally clueless of the responsibilities of his own rank."

He shook his head. I had to wait for him to cut his bloody veal chops before he resumed his speech, chewing. I had not touched my plate and was waiting, the cigarette in my hand that he continues. He finally look up at me and said, with a contempt grin.

"But everything went really wrong when this girl appeared out of nowhere"

* * *

 _A/N : Review to unlock Part II! ;) (Seriously, your imput and feedback would be much appreciated to improve this Part I and continue the Part II. Really! Thank you so much for reading!)_


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